Burr
by feryvancy
Summary: I have no goals, no focus, no plans, no wants. Nothing to really make me human. So what does that make me? It makes me a liar- Rated M as of Chapter 15.
1. Chapter 1

AN: This story is in Craig's POV, and will be until further notice.

Chapter One: A Liar

Sometimes I wonder if people mistake my apathy for me just being a jerk.

It's worth mentioning that I am indeed a jackass. There's no way around that. But it appears I have friends, and it appears that they think I like them. That I listen to them and care about all the bullshit they spew at me. I guess I egg them on, nodding and grunting in sympathy and understanding where I'm supposed to. But I don't care, not really. No one makes me feel anything.

I'm something of a sociopath. I'm a walking, talking meat-sack that lacks the things necessary to truly be considered a human. Feelings: compassion, sympathy, empathy, joy, sadness, burning hatred, love- just words. I read what they are supposed to do and when they're supposed to happen, but all I feel is an annoying buzz of what could be a seed of emotion. It never takes root and grows.

I have no goals, no focus, no plans, no wants.

Nothing to make me human.

So what does that make me?

It makes me a liar because humans can't mind their own goddamn business. They can't just take things the way they are. They need religion and science and physics to try to explain the world, which in its entirety is unexplainable. Hell, if an angel fell out of the sky with a message from God telling us to just ignore him and we'll get world peace, they'd still probably cut it up and dope it up and imprison it.

Support groups would form and riot for its rights.

Churches would be swamped of selfish people who suddenly care about the existence of God who were praying for forgiveness.

It'd be the topic of the night for months. Sides would form, conspiracies would follow, crazies would feed their paranoia.

There would be so. Much. Talking. Because people never seem to _do_ anything anymore, you know? Everything's illegal for the safety of the citizens. No fighting, no killing, no threatening, no unpleasant speak. Turning into a nation of weak lambs who can't take of ourselves.

But I digressed- twice.

First- they'd do the same thing if a demon popped out of Mt. Everest. Sometimes I wonder if there's really such a difference between what's right and what's wrong in the world.

Second- what does this all have with me?

It's not impossible that I'm a little paranoid, but whatever. I think that if people knew me, _really_ knew me, that things would be… bad. If people started truly believing the indifference in my eyes, if my friends (acquaintances- the words seem to be interchangeable in society; I mean, just look at Facebook- there is no way in hell that people are actually friends with as many people as they claim to be, even "Facebook friends-" I abandoned my page years ago) realized that I don't care about what they say or them, if my family realized what I thought about them… shit, I don't know. I don't know if anyone would even care. If I'd insult them to their very core (why, though? It's not like I did anything to them personally.) If they'd try to fix me.

There are too many "if"s. How am I supposed to tell anyone anyway? "Hey, guys, just thought I'd let you know I'm kind of a sociopath. I hope this doesn't upset you. Not that I really care either way, but emotions are so messy and I don't know how to deal with them."

I have to keep this act up, at least until I leave this God-forsaken town. These people know me- they believe they do. If I drop my act they'll notice. They'd try to weasel the answer out. I gotta hide from these people.

Plus, I remember back when I used to care they were my world. Before this chill had slinked into me, and I remember being sooo happy. Some part of me is still trying to fight this, and thinks that they can do it.

The rest of me knows better.

~AN 2.0: So… what do you think? Good? Crap? The Holy Grail of fan fictions? Eyes are burning? Reviews make me update before July. And since the story line isn't exactly set in stone yet (or, you know, really started yet) I'm up for suggestions. And Tweek is going to show up eventually, but not for a chapter or two or three. Like I said- story line needs some work. Grammar corrections are welcomed and encouraged. Also- did you know that there are, like, thirteen things called burr (not including what I'm using it for)? Seriously. Wiki it.


	2. Chapter 2

~AN: I'm lazy. I should be able to spit this out faster. I don't even have a "I had a lot of schoolwork/studying to do," even though I probably have been studying for my midterms. In the following there is… the beginning of a plot! I know, insane, right? Anyways, I don't own South Park or any of the characters or plan on making any money. Moving on-

Chapter 2: A Student

I wake up every day at 6:45. The bus doesn't come to my bus stop until 7:50. It takes me twenty minutes flat to get ready. I get up this early because I cannot physically get out of bed.

_Why bother to get out of bed?_

Because you have to.

_Why, though? Why not just lay here and let the world rot around you?_

Because you have to get up.

_Why bother?_

It's not an option.

_Who makes you?_

Society. Society makes me.

_Why do you give a fuck about society? Screw society. Stay here and sleep._

Because screwing society draws too much attention. They won't leave me alone. They'll see the abnormality and try to fix it, and then instead of screwing society they'll try to make me make love to society- which is bullshit.

_It'll be a statement._

I don't care about making a statement. Plus, that'd be the stupidest passive-aggressive statement ever to exist-

**A TEENAGE BOY REFUSES TO GET OUT OF BED BECAUSE THE WORLD SUCKS.**

I get out of bed, grab my clothes, take a shower, cram in a Pop Tart, grab my iPod, and I go out the door.

I was in the clear. I thought that I was going to be free to drive to school alone until I looked into my rearview mirror. "Damn it," I mutter as my designated BFF raced out his front door towards my Audi. Clyde Donavan is a big guy. Not Cartman The Fatass big, more like massive football guy big. I forget what position he plays, but I know he's always second (second: best, most important, most noticed, you name it)to Stan Marsh. This has led to a near decade long rivalry. A one-sided rivalry. Clyde kisses Golden Boy ass, and then bitches at me about how much he hates Stan and how annoying Stan is and so on and so forth. If I didn't know any better I'd think that Clyde has a hard on for Stan.

"Damn, planning on leaving without me or something?" he said as he plopped into the passenger side.

"Yes." He snorts. When I was younger I thought us being best friends meant that I could be brutally honest with him. I realized after awhile that it meant I could be brutally honest and he wouldn't take it seriously. I'm not sure what's more annoying: the lying or the being treated trivially.

"Hey, dude, is that your sister? Pull over, man, give her a ride," he said. Clyde appears to have a crush on a little sister. It's rather pitiful. She'll be fifteen in next month- the day of our high school graduation. She doesn't look like a nearly fifteen year old- she looks one cup size away from a Victoria's Secret model, something she's very aware of. Little skank.

"Fuck her and I will strangle you in your sleep," I said as I drove off. Actually, the triviality is better- I get to get away with death threats because of it. Ruby flipped me off as I drove off. I returned the favor.

"Dude, you are such a dick to your sister."

"Says the one who wants to screw her brains out."

He continues, "I mean, shouldn't you be carting her around and shootin' boyfriends, being the overprotective brother you were born to be?"

"One- I was born first. I wasn't born to be her anything. Two- stereotyping. Three- _says the one who wants to screw her brains out._" I like numbering my points. It makes them simple and straight forward, easy to understand.

He keeps talking, but I stopped listening. I slowly turned the volume, hinting that maybe he should _shut up._ He doesn't take the hint.

I don't know where the descriptions of Redneckville high (and/or junior high) schools came from, but South Park Central School wasn't one of them. It looks a little like you'd imagine a bigass private school would look like. Looks too good- old, but good- for the actual student body that inhabits it. The parking lot was puny but, hell, not a lot of people can afford cars here.

I parked next to Token's new Cadillac Escalade (fucker) and into the building, Clyde on my heals, still blabbering away (what's he talking about now? Cheerleaders?) I dug through my locker, switching out my backpack for today's classes. Wasn't there a quiz today? Fuck, there is.

"There a quiz today?" I asked.

"What?" he asked, looking a little like I'd asked him if elephants could fly. Is "There a quiz today?" really a confusing question.

"Quiz. Today. Is there."

"Fuck if I know, dude. You're in smartass classes, remember?" Right. I remember back when I first started smartass classes. Clyde always wanted me to tutor him 'n shit. I am a horrible tutor. I get what I get and that's it. I can't explain it to you, nor do I have to patience. He just copies my papers now.

"Yo, Kyle, do we have a quiz today?" I holler down the hallway. Kyle and Co. were huddled next to the stairwell. Kenny was probably dealing. Kyle stuck his head out and yelled back a, "In which class?"

"Any of 'em!"

"Chem." Damn it. My chemistry teacher is a twat. He's fucking with my GPA.

"Fucking son of a bitch," I mutter as I close my locker.

"Dude, are you paying any attention?"

"Of course I am Clyde, because I care so fucking much about whatever you're talking about," I say blankly, making sure to give Clyde my _I'm bullshitting you _look.

"Whatever, dickless," I flip him off and start walking once the bell rings. "So is this a yes?"

"No. Whatever it is, no."

"Come _on_, it'd be fun." He draws out the U. I feel like punching him. I think I got screwed with this emotion business. People are meant to feel more than annoyance and anger to ensure that we don't kill each other. All I got was _sense_.

"No."

"You have to."

"No I don't."

"You can't blow off your girlfriend's birthday party."

"Anne's not my girlfriend." Never will be, either. Other than the fact she appears to have some strong feelings for me despite the fact we've never had a conversation before.

Well, we made out once. Drunkenly. She used too much tongue.

I tune Clyde out and enter something he never will- an AP English class.

I sit down, put my headphones in, rearrange my chullo to hide said headphones, and ignore the world.

.

.

.

~ AN 2.0: Reviews make me soooo happy, so do it. Please.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Oh my god, reviews! Yay! They make me soooo happy. Thanks so much. This took a little longer to write than planned due to the fact I kept switching from present-tense to past-tense (those are words, right?) I was also struck to write a later chapter. Don't own, yada yada yada. My friend said I should put in a warning, so, um… warning. I swear a lot. And onward!

Chapter 3: A Man of the House.

_Punch your lights out  
Hit the pavement  
That's what I call entertainment  
Causin' problems makes you famous  
All the violence makes a statement-  
_

And then I hear a noise. It could've be nothing- that happens a lot. I have a tendency to hear phantom rings. My name being called, a noise in the kitchen, phones ringing, a door slamming, ect. On the other hand, I had a feeling that I wasn't half-assed hallucinating. I stick my head out and holler, "What?" Still nothing. I sigh and turn the radio off. "What?" I repeat.

"Craig, get down here this instant!" my mother hollers back from downstairs. She sounds pissed. I roll my eyes as I jog down the stairs. As soon as I'm down I can see her in Stance for Craig #2. There are but two Stances for Craigs:

#1: Neutrality- this is the most common of stance. It consists of ignoring Craig. Craig prefers this because it usually involves silence.

#2: Annoyance- this occurs when something is wanted from Craig, and since Craig is not psychic nor does he give a big enough shit to pay attention to begin with, he generally doesn't know that he's expected to be doing something until it was supposed to be done yesterday.

"It is about time you heard me! I have been calling you for five straight minutes and you didn't hear me over your goddamn music! What if I had been hurt?" she demanded. My mother has some sort of hip problem. It makes it harder for her to walk and stuff (I've never actually seen her fall over and therefore be hurt- it is something I believe would be amusing and something I really want to see.)

_Well, that's not really my problem it? Why don't you hobble up the goddamn steps and come get me if it's so urgent? I think you can survive without me, you old hag,_ is what I wanted to say.

"Sorry," is what I did say.

"Do you know where you're supposed to be doing right now?"

"No." Honesty is a virtue.

"No? _No? _Are you serious? You said you would last week!" Whatever it is, I'm sure I didn't.

"What am I supposed to be doing?"

"You _said _that you would pick your sister from her dance recital." Right. Her dance recital. I vaguely remember hearing about that. "In _fact_, I believe you even said you'd go over and-"

"I highly doubt that I would ever say I'd go and watch." I hate when she tries to dump her failures as a parent onto me. Seriously. All this shit is her responsibilities. I go through life purposely trying to avoid responsibilities. "And why do I even need to go get her? The studio's, like, three blocks away.

She gave me The Look (the Your Stupidity Astounds Me look; it's a rather hypocritical look, in my opinion.) "Craig Thomson Tucker, you know why she can't walk here. It is freezing outside," it's always freezing outside, "Her outfit is much to skimpy," she always dresses skimpily, "Is that what you want? For your little sister to get kidnapped and sold into white slavery as a sex slave? This town is _dangerous_." Not as dangerous as you think it is, woman.

"Whatever, whatever. I'll go get her," I say. I grab my keys and I'm out the door before she can start ranting about how big of a brat I am and how I need to learn some respect, ect.

One- I am hardly a brat. She should be grateful for how much shit I put up with and how well I behave. Two- respect is bullshit. Especially if it's respect for people who don't deserve it, like my mother or teachers. Seriously, what have either of these people done to earn my respect? Other than be older than me, obviously.

Nothing? Wow, I'm so surprised.

When I got the studio a whole five minutes later, Ruby was sitting on the curb, looking like a hooker whose had a bad night. I informed her of this as she got into the car. She flipped me off.

"Shut up and drive. And turn up the heat, I'm freezing." She added a shiver for effect.

"Why didn't you bring some clothes to change into?" Ruby is not a horrible person. I try to make conversation with her sometimes, trying to drag up some sympathy and other warm feelings up for her, but it just doesn't happen.

"I did, but this bitch Brittany spilled her flavored mineral water all over them."

"She sounds like a bimbo," I say. She sighs for an unknown reason.

"She is." Pause. "You were late."

"How long?"

"Fifteen minutes."

"Boo hoo."

There's silence for a minute she says, "I'm good at it, you know. Dancing."

"I'm sure you are. You would have dropped it years ago like the rest of the girls in this town if you weren't."

Silence again, and then- "Why don't you or Mom come to my recitals?

"You know why Mom doesn't go." Because she's a horrible, self-centered woman who doesn't care about us as much as she's supposed to.

"Yeah, but what about you?" she asks quietly. I don't answer. You know why, Rubes.

_Because I'm exactly the same. _

At least I don't act like I give a shit.

_Yes, you do._

At least I don't have a superiority complex falling out of my fat ass.

_Well, not your __**fat**__ ass…_

Fuck you, inner contradictor.

Unfortunately, my internal argument had let Ruby simmer, so by the time we got back to our house and out of the car, this happened:

Ruby: FUCK YOU, YOU COCK SUCKING PRAT! WHY DON'T YOU GIVE A SHIT ABOUT ANYTHING OTHER THAT YOUR PRECIOUS MUSIC AND YOUR WEED TIME WITH KENNY- I BET YOU'RE LETTING KENNY _SCREW _YOUFOR YOUR SHIT, BECAUSE IT'S NOT LIKE YOU CARE ANYWAY, YOU PILLOW-BITER! [throws shoes at me, screams] I HATE YOU! I HATE THIS FAMILY! I HATE THIS TOWN! [runs into house, presumably straight into her room]

I don't blame you, Ruby. I follow her indoors.

Mom's in her chair. She sits in her chair all day, getting up only to shit and eat. Other than her welfare, she writes a blog in which she wittily reviews books. Why does she get paid for it, I do not know, but I know it's a fairly well known blog because we get free books from publishing companies all the time.

"What was that all about?" she asks from behind the computer.

"She's upset that you missed her recital," I say. It's most of the truth. It's a part of the truth.

She sighs. Shit. I hate when she sighs.

"Craig, take a seat." I really don't want to take a seat. I feel a speech coming on. I hate speeches. I take a seat anyway, 'cuz I'm a pussy. "Craig, I know it's been rough for you, with your father gone and all. Your sister has it hard, too, don't forget that-"

She's look at me with Stance for Craig #3. I forget about Stance for Craig #3 a lot.

#3: Love- we care about you, Craig. We need you, Craig. You can't leave us, Craig. You're obligated to us, Craig.

Stance for Craig #3 is a horrible combination of a truth and a hoax.

I take my exit as soon as she's done. I go to sleep. I halfway hope that I don't wake up.

~AN 2.0: I don't know if you've noticed yet, but I kind of like taking an adjective and add an ass to the end- just for emphasis. And on the phantom rings- that happens to me so much it's freaking ridiculous. Lyrics- _Lights Out_ by Mindless Self Indulgence. Review, please! And then go listen to the song. And _2 Hookers and an 8 Ball._ I'm done with the shameless plugging now. Bye.


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Gah, y'all are so awesome! All the favorites, story alerts and reviews- I love it. So much. Thank you. Anyway, I don't own this. There's some Crenny in here. Okay, a little more than some- sue me, he hasn't met Tweek yet. I don't own anything.

Chapter Four: A Partier

If I were ever to ever like anyone other than Ruby, it'd probably be Kenny, because I don't dislike Kenny. Had it been up to me, Kenny would have been my "best friend." Unfortunately, Kenny was already taken by the time I realized how much Clyde annoys me. Plus, it'd look like I was some pathetic lackey waiting for attention (ahem- Butters,) if I'd dropped Clyde for him.

We're both missing pieces. Different parts, but pieces nonetheless. We see that in each other. We get it.

I don't think either of us really give a shit about the world.

We get baked together to chase away the feeling that they should.

We were sitting next to each other, passing the blunt. He has this lazy smile glued onto his face. I'm fairly sure that look never leaves his face. I don't understand how his look is any better than mine, other than his gives off the impression that he's content. I guess he is, in a way. More than I am.

"So I heard you're cheating on me, Craig," he said. Kenny, who is insanely grope-happy, took approximately one minute to drape himself over me. One arm was around my shoulders, one hand was halfway up my inner thigh, and his head on my shoulder. I'd gotten over trying to get him off me years ago.

"Eh?"

"Stan told me that Wendy told him that she heard from Bebe who had heard from Sally that you and Anne were getting it on," he said.

"Me and Anne? No, she's been obsessed with me since we made out over the summer. I don't like her."

"You don't like anybody," he scoffs. I take the blunt from him and take a hit. "What are you, like, asexual?"

"You know, weed really doesn't do all that much anymore. Maybe we should find something stronger," I say, not really wanting to answer the question. Not really wanting to think about it.

"No. I don't want to turn out like my dad," he says. Stuart McCormick uses meth, which obviously isn't a downer, but whatever. I knew he was probably frowning. That much I'm good at- hearing frowns in voices. They tell me that I need to cool off, get back to the lying. "If I were to like anybody, it'd be a guy. Girls annoy me way too much for me to ever get it up. Too much drama."

"_Everything_ annoys you."

"Girls do _a lot_ of things."

"Well, yeah, but they're hot."

"Tits don't do all that much for me." Oh _shit_. I felt Kenny shift, and then suddenly I'm being straddled and have a face full of unbelieving Kenny.

"What? Did you just say _tits don't do much for you_? Are you insane? They're tits! Tits make the world go round. Tits make life worth living. Tits were put on this Earth to make people _happy._"

"I'm fairly sure that every gay guy on the face of the Earth can disagree with that," I say. And then he smirks.

"So you admit it! I mean, I've had my suspicions, but know I have verifiable proof. And I bet I'm the first person you've told. Aw, Craiggy, I feel so _special_-" and at this I push him off of me and into the wall. He gives me a (presumably fake) disgruntled look, and stays in the corner. And then he's staring.

I ignore him.

One minute later- "Hey, Craig, you should let me blow you."

- _30 minutes later_

Hnnnn. I don't really feel like thinking. Or moving.

That was nice.

Better than anything Tammy Warner ever gave out.

"Hey, Craig, come with me to Tammy's party." I groaned.

"I don't wanna," I whine. I'm not completely convinced that I could get up anyway- I feel like I'm boneless.

"Too bad. I just blew you. You owe me."

"Why don't you go with Stan or Kyle or Cartman?"

"Stan's on a date with Wendy, Cartman's being a lazy fat ass, and Kyle is studying."

"I still don't wanna go. I hate parties. I hate people," I whine. That was a bit of an exaggeration, though. I just have a general distain for the human population in general.

"I know, I know. Too bad."

"But-"

"Dude. Your dick. Was in. My mouth."

"You _liked_ it, fuckwad. And did you seriously just blow me just to woo me into going to some goddamn party?"

He nodded.

"The party of a girl you've been, like, in love with since fourth grade."

Another nod.

I sigh. I probably could have felt more bitter or something.

I have no idea how I ended up in my car. Honestly, no idea. And to letting _Kenny_ drive, for god's sake. Kenny, it appears, doesn't believe in the usage of breaks. You know breaks, they're the things that make those hulking metal boxes we travel in distinguishable from missiles.

Despite Kenny's apparent death wish, I do not want to die. This lead to me cussing him out until we arrived at Tammy's house. I got out onto safe, steady, stationary ground and glared over at Kenny. "Do you want to die or something? This is a legitimate question," I say after a second.

The bastard laughs and shakes his head sadly, like I'm missing out on some big joke.

"So what if I do?" he asks. I stare.

Suicidal bastard is going to get me killed.

The party was very party-like. It was actually being held at Tammy's BFF's house, so there was plenty of room for people to hump and dance. It was loud, smelled of booze and weed, and the room's were already completely trashed.

I quickly find myself a nice corner to hide in (after locating some beer, obviously.) Said corner was also occupied by some full-out goths (or emos, whatever- I still can't really tell them apart) complete with more black, spikes, pleather, and makeup than is really necessary. I have nothing against goths/emos, and they really have nothing against me once I make it clear I'm avoiding people and am not going to start bugging then. It's a silent agreement between me and every other minority cliché on the face of the Earth.

The goths were talking about their shared revulsion of conformity, popular people, the world, ect. And repeat. Like that was all they had to talk about- how much the world sucks. Admittedly, that's all I think about on a regular basis. Hell, I think everyone thinks about a lot more than we admit it.

I don't know what got me to say anything, but before I knew it I had opened my mouth and words were coming out. "It's kind of hypocritical for you to be talking about your hatred for conformity when you're just conforming to anti-conformity. I hate vapid twats as much as the next person, but I the only thing that annoys me more are vapid twats who wear Nine Inch Nails shirts who think they're better than the vapid twats who wear Abercrombie & Fitch."

And know I'm getting glared at.

"Well, maybe if you understood our pain-" and I'm gone.

Their fucking _pain_. I'd show them pain. I'd take their little blades they plant their scars with and show them how deep they can really get. I'd show them exactly what bad and evil really is. I'll-

Bad, unhelpful thoughts. Unhealthy thoughts. Tempting thoughts.

I need more beer.

A few more mellowing beers later, I'm back to not being a danger to society. I'm just a little buzzed, which is not something everyone else could say.

Excluding my most favorite person on the face of the Earth, Anne.

She walked up hesitantly, which crashed my hope that she was hammered and I could easily brush her off and run. "Hey, Craig," she says softly. Sweetly, I suppose.

I grunt in response. She seemed to waver, and then she looked like she was about to leave but then she stopped. I looked over my shoulder and see Sally, who quickly tried to look like she wasn't glaring over here a second ago, presumably sending a telepathic, _Don't you dare back down, girl._

God damn her and her girl power.

"So, um, Craig, I was thinking that maybe-"

"Listen, Anne, I'm really not interested in going on a date with you."

"But m-maybe we could go on a date and see if there's something there," she said nervously, chewing her lip. I'm good at reading nervousness, too- Anne's was fake. Was that some sort of flirting technique? I'm not in a good mood.

"Damn it, Anne. I do not _like_ you. I will _never_ like you. I don't find you attractive, I don't find you cute, I don't _anything_ to do with you!" Her eyes started to water. "What the hell are you crying about? It's not like I'm breaking up with you, I'm just making it clear that I will never like you. We do not stand a chance, and I don't even want a chance. Jesus, why do even like me anyway? Do you even know me? Oh, and your flirting- it's not cute, it's annoying. Stop giggling every time I say something."

I leave her crying and I can feel Sally glaring holes into me.

I hunt down Kenny. He's making out with Tammy. I guess the night was good for someone. I flick his ear. "Ow, what?" he snaps.

"You doing this?" I say. He nods. "Great, I'm heading out. And I'm taking my car. Have fun."

I leave. I feel as though my time was wasted, despite the fact that I wouldn't have been doing anything better at home.

AN 2.0: God, Craig's just a giant dick, isn't he? Jesus. I'm going to have to do something to make him more likeable or something. Just to make it clear- I don't dislike emos or goths or whatevers. I dislike vapid twats (Trent Reznor is not a vapid twat.) On the other hand, I'm not a huge fan of this chapter- review and tell me why.


	5. Chapter 5

AN: Craig is going to get a little emo on your asses, and right after a very awesome reviewer said how cool it was that I hadn't made him all emo. Damn, I suck. Believe it or not, I STILL do not own. But wouldn't it be weird if I really was Matt or Trey?

….

Chapter 5: A Similarity

Humans are emotional beings. It's a simple fact. Especially in high school, I suppose. I don't quite believe that, though. Every time you turn on the television it's clear that drama and choices never go away. That's why I don't watch a lot of TV.

All I want from life is for it to calm the fuck down. I honestly cannot wait until we're all old and tamed and boring. When we're all tickey-tacky and simple and there's nothing to try and figure out. Although, according to the TV, this never happens, a fact I honestly hope is false.

There's just some form of stress that just consumes me whenever I see the results of emotions. The tension I feel when someone starts crying. The impaling sharp annoyance I feel when someone is doing something stupid out of love or loyalty. The claustrophobia I experience when people discuss the injustices of the world, because I do not give a shit and I'm forced into saying how much it sucks for them. Not for me, though, and that's what matters to me.

I have goddamn panic attacks sometimes, because it's not fair. It's not fair that I don't get to understand any of the good things in the world. And for what? Because for some unexplainable, stupid reason I don't want to die even though I'm barely alive to begin with.

I do want to fit in, sometimes. But, damn it, I just don't like the people I'd fit with enough to really bother.

I've gotten better at not thinking, though. I just turn my brain off and listen to some music. Eventually I click back into sanity. There's a reason I'm like this, so just stop thinking about it.

…

I must have fallen asleep, because the next time my eyes are open there's a black guy staring at me.

"Hey, Craig."

"Yo," I reply woozily.

"Did I wake you up?"

"What would possibly give up that idea?" I ask as I sit up and rub my eyes. Once I'm sure there are indeed only one Token in my room, I notice that he looks a little off.

"What's up?"

"Bebe broke up with me."

"I'm sorry." Automatic response. What's the point of sorry, really? Everyone says sorry more than necessary. It's more like a, "I recognize the unpleasantness," kind of thing.

"Dude, don't bullshit me. If I wanted someone feeling sorry for me I would have gone to Clyde's- dude's a total pussy." I snort in agreement. "But I came to the jackass. What do you really think about Bebe?"

"Bebe's a total whore who fucks everything that moves, like Kenny. Only Kenny is at least honest about how much of a whore he is- Bebe just thinks she's God's gift to mankind by spreading her legs every time someone looks at her tits. I didn't think you'd last an hour, let alone six months." I wonder if that was too honest.

"Harsh. Thank you." I suddenly like Token a little bit more. Token, on a general rule, is a straight laced dude. Boring, which is nice. However, despite what my occasionally brooding mind spews, boring shit bores me. It's the idiotic ways of things that really get me. I mean, if there was ever drama that made any sense and was based on logic I'd totally be for it. "Now entertain me, jackass, before I go blow up Kevin's van."

"Kevin?"

"Yes."

"What'd Kevin do?"

"Fuck Bebe in his van."

"Really? But… dude, he's _Asian_. And you're _black." _I use my fingers to indicate the size difference. See what I mean? There is no logic in this. "You'd think a sex addict like her would consider these problems before all this."

"You are a crude, crude person, my friend." We played video games until he had to leave. We didn't bring up the Bebe issue again. I think that's what people want sometimes- someone who doesn't care and doesn't ask questions. People are too needy for this to be a constant, though.

…

I forgot how old my sister is. She's fifteen, not fourteen. I guess makes it a little less pervy that Clyde has a chubby for her. Was it even creepy to begin with? Whatever.

Anyway, Mom is giving her car to Ruby for her Sweet Sixteen.

I shit you not. When I turned sixteen, I had to buy my own goddamn car with my own goddamn money that I'd been saving since I was thirteen goddamn years old. I got a lucky break with my Audi, which is only fifteen years old.

My sister gets a four year old Kia Something Or Other. Because Mom wants a new car. Why? No reason, she just feels like it. It makes her look better, in her mind.

Her new car every couple of years, her closet of three hundred dollar shoes, her buying new _shit _every other day is the reason Ruby and I don't have college funds.

If I really wanted to go, I could have gone. I have good enough grades to get a few scholarships. If I tried I could get into a middle rate university and not have students debts for the rest of my life. As it is, though, I don't really have any ambitions that a degree is necessary and if you don't care about the academic aspect of college, you'd go for the social.

Both of these options repulse me.

And Ruby- she doesn't test well, and she isn't exactly book smart to begin with. I overheard her talking about going to CU, but she's on crack if she honestly thinks she's going to get in. Her grades aren't horrible, but they're not good, either. If she has any brains at all she'll go to the BOCES* and get a license in cosmetology or something.

Or she could work at Raisins. Or Hooters- anywhere where drunken males throw tips at hot chicks, really. All would be equally lucrative.

I've been avoiding my mother since I found out to avoid strangling her. On the other hand, I could collect life insurance.

_Not if you get caught. Keep moving._

So I do. Up into my room, and-

"What the unclefucking hell are you doing in my room?" I hiss at beloved sister. Her head whipped around. She has the guilty look. I glare.

"Craig! Shit, um… I thought you had detention."

"Craig Simpson has detention. You must have heard wrong." Our school, in an attempt to embarrass troublemakers into being good, announces the people who have detention over the intercom. Scary shit, I know. "This begs the question what the hell are you doing in my room that requires me to not be here?" I feel my I Am a Decent Person façade falling. I really do not appreciate nosiness. I especially do not appreciate nosiness directed at me.

"Jesus, Craig, it's nothing. Anyone ever tell you that you have a nasty pissed off face? I mean seriously-" she keeps babbling in hopes of distracting me from the fact she just dropped my wallet.

"Were you seriously just trying to steal from me? Seriously? Get the fuck out of my room you little _cu_-"

"Don't do dare call me that, dickwad!" She gave me a harassed, 'How dare you look?' Even though she was just attempted to steal my money. I roll my eyes, grab her arm, and throw her out of my room. She lands on her ass.

"Ow! Jesus Christ, Craig."

"Go blow your math teacher you little slut- it's the only way you're going to pass anyway, you idiotic cum-guzzling whore. I mean, it's not like you won't like it. You like older guys, right?"

The door is slammed on astonished face. Despite I desire to curse people out to hell and back, I'm generally fairly good at holding it in, other than flipping people off. The bird doesn't really count, though, because somehow it's been translated into a greeting of sorts.

I really can't help but to flip people off. People are just so _exasperating_.

…

My mom comes up later to have a little chat about domestic violence and that I need to calm down, mmkay? It's not like I threw her down the stairs or anything. I threw the thieving little bitch out of my room.

I guess that's another thing. I don't really forgive people. I mean, I move on, whatever. It's not like I'm going to have Mrs. Farley for the rest of my life for failing my English paper just because I wrote about how stupid Romeo and Juliet were instead of how romantically tragic they were. But I'm never going to like her because all I can think is, "This twat failed me because she didn't see the point with my paper. What a twatty twat."

Same goes for my family and friends.

Is there really no one on Earth worth forgiving? Eesh, life as a sociopath is so _hard_, ya know?

….

AN 2.0: *- BOCES is a I'm Not Going To College so Educate Me in the Ways of Non-College Goers program in New York. I don't know in Colorado has a similar thing going on, so I'm using BOCES. If you know if they do, message me and I'll change it.

Tickey-tacky: see "Little Boxes" by Malvina Reynolds (a shit load of other people have made covers of it, too.) The different parts of this story don't really go together, but I figured it was either three mini chapters (and mini chapters annoy me) or one slightly off kilter chapter. I chose this. Reviewers get brownie points, which is a major something because I love me some brownies, and am very possessive of them. And my birthday was yesterday and all I wanted was some nice reviews on Burr.


	6. Chapter 6

AN: I'm about to rant. Feel free to skip if so inclined; it has nothing to do with Burr other than explaining why this chapter took longer to publish than planned, and I have to spread my anger to every corner of the world. **My English teacher is a douchey jackass of a bitch. I loathe her with a burning passion.** **She just flunked me on a fairly important **_**writing **_**test because I didn't follow her "strategies." Now, you've read Burr for a few chapters now, and have probably come to the conclusion that I'm better than a 63. That c*nt needs to pull her head out of her ass and realize that I'm goddamn good writer and don't need her goddamn strategies and her writing system is such major bullshit no one would **_**ever**_** really read it or use it outside of her pretty little OCD-ridden room. She even admitted she graded it unfairly, so now she's an extra big jackass. God, I really hate her now. This is like the third time she gave me an uncalled for F, and if it she'd stop fucking up her grading I'd have a fairly constant 97. I just had to write a shitty paper because that's the way she wants them written. GAR! You know, she's the reason people think writing and reading sucks ass. Fin~**

Kenny's back! Come on, we all know you love Kenny. There was going to be another chapter between the last chapter and this one, but it would've been a filler (and a bad filler at that) so know you get this. And I'll admit to being a little Bah Humbug! to logic at some points. Don't own, ect.

…

Chapter Six: A Edge

I've been discreetly emptying my locker for the last week. Any and all papers, books, writing utensils, and other shit that had migrated into my locker has either been thrown out or stored back in my bedroom. This is due to the single fact that as soon as people start getting mushy and nostalgic , I am hauling my ass out.

I appear to be the only one relieved that I never have to see any of these people together, so I am completely prepared to disappear the second that twat Bradley starts talking to me, despite the fact we've kind of hated each other since middle school. I don't remember why- it might have been something about girls (it usually is, isn't it?) Either way, I can barely stand the people I even bother to keep up with, let alone people whose names I can barely remember.

It doesn't appear to matter that we all live within walking distance (even Cartman Walking Distance) and will more than likely still see each other over the summer. It's like people suddenly started thinking, "This is the last school year we have together, damn it, so they're all going to start loving each other," or something. I haven't really been paying attention to Clyde recently, but I bet if I spent a minute or two actually listening I'd be able to name the feelings. It's probably something I should catalogue.

"Hey, Craig! Oh my god, it's been forever since we've talked." Bradley suddenly appears out of nowhere. "It seems so weird that we've spent so much time together in this tiny school and we'd barely got to know each other, you know? We totally have to talk or something over the summer. Sign my yearbook?" He shoves a pen and his yearbook into my face. I nod and sign-

Craig T.

Hctib ,at at .Tawt gniyonna na re'uoy. Yussp, kcid ym kcus. Deklat reven ev'ew taht yppah os I ma, dog.

I'm really good at writing backwards. I rush off before he decodes my loving message, which also happens to be the best marker I've ever left for myself.

…

Kenny has decided to give me a lap dance. Unfortunately, he appears to be higher than a fucking satellite, so he keeps tipping over before it gets any good.

Having enticed me over to his shithole home with the promise of weed, you'd think he'd have more than half a joint left (but I wasn't particularly inclined to go back to my house, so I stayed.) It took longer than usual due to the fact I had to make a jail break. Ruby, the little prick, decided to rat about what exactly I said when I threw her out of my room. She left out the fact that she was attempting to steal _sixty fucking dollars _for a new _push up bra_. Seriously. I heard her talking about it with one of her friends. And really, what the hell kind of bra is worth sixty dollars?

"Kenny, is there any bra in the world that's worth sixty dollars?" I ask, stopping him from falling over again. Kenny pouts, decides that I look like I comfortable pillow, and collapses all boneless on me.

"Craig! You told me, like, last month that you didn't care about tits. Why are you asking me about bras when I'm so skillfully having out my services?" he slurred.

"Answer the question."

Pause. "What question?"

I repeat.

"Noooooo. I mean, the best option is free- no bra. No _shirt_. No clothes, really. _Damn._" And then Kenny was gone.

I had to punch him ten times to get him to stop dry humping my leg and go spend some private time in the bathroom.

When he came back in he swagged like he'd just nailed a 10 instead of his right hand.

After he had properly embedded himself into my personal bubble, he thought it'd be the proper time to remind me that he was indeed still enjoying the fatty he only left a stub for me. "Craig…" he drawled. I could feel it coming. What's worse, a high and therefore annoying Kenny or a pissed Mom and sister?

Stupid question.

"What?" I say.

"You have a freckle, like, right here." He punctuated that sentence with jabbing a finger right between my eyes. I jerk away, upsetting Kenny, because who likes it when their pillows start moving?

"I am aware of the freckle." It's a slightly larger than normal freckle, but not mole-sized. It draws the occasional double-take. "I am known to have the occasional freckle."

"It's like… a third eye. Can you see out of your third eye, Craig?"

"No."

"Ha! You're third eye blind. Third Eye Blind," he sang. "And you're short-"

"I am not _short_."

"You're vertically challenged."

"No I'm not." I am 5'7. That is not short. Just because Kenny is as tall as a fucking flagpole-

"You are short and suffering from Short Man Syndrome. And your eyes are pretty. They're like… they're liiiike… they're like rocks."

"Why thank you so much."

"No! Those pretty, fancy rocks that Token has for countertops."

"Marble?"

"No."

"Granite?"

"Noooooo."

"Dude, what else is there?"

"Um… limestone?"

"Seriously?"

"Fine. Grey granite. Really _pretty_ grey granite. Oh, no, wait! They're _storm clouds_."

"You're so poetic, Kenny. Why are we having this conversation?"

"Because you're hot."

"Stop hitting on me, Kenny."

…

"Craig-"

"Get out of my room," I reply before she finishes. I'd been contently ignoring the world before Ruby had to go and interrupt it, and I was fully intending to return to previously mentioned peaceful state. Whatever she was planning on saying was surely not going to correlate with that plan.

"Jesus, I was just going to tell you that your boyfriend was here. No reason to start biting my head off."

"Well, last time I saw you in my room, you were trying to steal my hard earned money."

"Well, it's not hard earned, you just never spend any of it."

"One- shut up. Two- so that means you can go ahead and take it?"

She sighed. "Listen, Craig-"

"Just shut up. Whatever it is you're going to say, I honestly just _don't care. _Really. Just because you're desperate to be a little whore doesn't mean shit to me. Go ahead, get pregnant you can even drive. Just don't get me involved."

She swallowed thickly. "Clyde's here," she repeated.

Speaking of the devil, he apparently he decided he didn't want to wait downstairs anymore and was in my doorway, hovering behind Ruby.

"Hey, Craig," he said, smiling his doofus smile. Ruby disappeared a second later. I sprawled on my bed, making it clear that he was not sitting with me. He decided to occupy my desk chair.

"Can you believe this is the last week of high school? Like, _ever_. We will never again enter a legally bound day of school after Friday."

I grunt a noise that could be taken any way that you want it to be, and start to zone out. Then I remember that I have to memorize an emotional state.

After a minute I have it documented that it's all a bunch of bullshit I can make up on spot as long as it sounds wistful.

After fifteen minutes, I realize that he's not going to stop. Suddenly I need to go do that thing over at that one place.

"Are you coming back soon?"

I grunt the grunt.

…

I go for a walk. I have a tendency of taking ridiculously long walks. I'm in North Park before I realize that maybe I should be walking back.

I assume that Clyde left after the first hour of my absence. I don't really have anything to interest people, forcing extended visits. Seriously- I even hide my CDs and DVDs just to make my whole house seem as boring as humanly possible.

Mom's not home when I get back. Two annoyances gone.

No obnoxious pop music from Ruby's room, so she's probably not home- check three.

I sigh in relief and head into my room-

Just to see Annoyance One and Three making out in my bed. My bed. Why is it always my shit that shit happens on?

And then it hits me. This is the perfect chance to get really _pissed off_. Sweet.

I start swearing like there's no fucking tomorrow. Him, her, their ancestors, their children. And it was so much fun. Seeing them scramble, seeing Ruby hunt for her shirt, seeing Clyde's _Oh Shit I Just Screwed My Best Friend Over_ look.

They can finally understand how uncomfortable they make me feel every goddamn day of my life.

I storm out at the proper time, a wicked grin on my face that they couldn't see.

…

I feel lighter.

I can't really explain it, but just being able to tear a new one in the two people I've been having to keep the act up for so long... It was so amazingly freeing to be able to let those two know exactly how much they burden my existence.

I was pondering when I should go back, and how I should act when something hit me- I don't have to go back. High School is (might as well be) over, I've shared my honest fuzzy feelings to Ruby and Clyde, all my money is transferred into my own account, I'm not a minor…

I can get the fuck out and no one can stop me.

There's no reason not to go.

….

I sold my car and bought an old Mustang that'd been sitting in Jimbo's garage for a disgustingly long time. I don't think he realized that old cars are worth more, because I only had to shell over a couple extra hundred after selling the Audi to get a new paint job and replace a few parts. Sometimes I very much enjoy how stupid people are.

I hid out at Kenny's while Jimbo and Ned work on the car. Ken doesn't question my motives, but I think I'm creeping him out with the smirking. Not that I'm smirking _a lot_, but enough for Kenny to kind of think I'm planning on blowing up SPH and replacing it with a topless bar (it was the best thing he could think of- I don't know why he still hates the school, he's graduating over the weekend.)

Either way, it lead him to saying, "Stop smiling. It goes against the laws of humanity. It's like a literal crocodile smile."

"One- I am not smiling. I am smirking at most. Two- I thought it was crocodile tears."

"How the fuck am I supposed to know? To I look like the kind of person who memorizes metaphors?"

"Idioms."

"It could be a fucking personification. Or it could be a donut. Either way, I don't care. You know, I don't have to be letting you stay here. I could charge you rent."

"Rent? For this house? Please, you should be paying me for staying here."

I've come to enjoy staying at the McCormick residence. It's a shittastic, certainly, but at least it's a shittastic place where people stay out of each other's shit. It's a little loud, of course, but at least they aren't to integrate me into the noise.

Token came around to convince to stick around for graduation. I agreed. It seems that it'd be like a proper ending to this bullshit town. And, like most sociopaths, I really enjoy myself some patterns and systems.

And I was totally not lying when I promised Token. I was going to attend, and then Clyde had to come and talk to me.

Kenny was out with his main crew, his sister was at a friend's house, and his parents were out for a fix, so I was alone. I ignored the knocking at first, hoping that whoever it was would just move on. "Craig, I know you're in there! Come on, man, we need to talk," said Clyde.

For some reason I got up and answered the door with a, "What?"

"Can I come in?"

"No, you can talk here." Seriously, why would you want to enter the house of someone who you have presumably really pissed off? "Not my house to let you into, anyway."

"Right." He took a deep breath, like this was all paining him. I guess it could be. No matter how much I try, I can't really stop people from caring about me. He still cares about me as much as Stan feels about Kyle (or vice versa.) I feel bad about it, sometimes, not being able to be here enough to return any of the feelings that are thrown at me. Not enough to ever try to change, but still.

"So, dude, look. I know it is wrong on so many levels to make out with your sister in your bed. But it's not like I'm using her or anything. I love her."

Oh for the love of Christ.

"No, you don't love her. You two have never had a decent conversation, and don't bullshit me into thinking that you've bonded over me. You don't know shit about her, so how could you _possibly _love her? Okay, so maybe you really, really like her and think she's hot which add together as love in your mind, but don't even try with me."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you heartless bastard."

"You really want to start right now?"

"Alright. Jesus, I just- I don't know. I care about you, man. Shit, we've been best friends since, like, forever." If I do recall, we only were friends of friends until fifth grade, but whatever. "I, shit, I don't know. I don't want to leave it like this. I mean, I'm going to State, and you're going to wherever you're going- oh, don't give me that, Tucker. Believe it or not, I am observant enough to know that there's no way in hell you're staying in this town, let alone this state."

I forget sometimes that he's not just a big meathead.

"I… I don't know. But… you know, right?"

I nod.

"See you around, Clyde. Don't be a shithead."

Last words I said to my best friend.

I just started feeling so pressured. There's so many emotions and loyalty and other things I don't quite comprehend going around. I just can't handle it anymore.

I call Jimbo and he tells me my Mustang will be ready by next morning. I tell him I'll be picking it up early, so it wasn't stolen when it's not there when he gets there.

Also- don't shoot me.

….

Once I was on the road, I realized I really had no idea what to do. I'd told Kenny that'd I'd call him and give an address to mail my diploma to. I was planning on moving after that. I would get a job and live quietly.

Unfortunately, there's a lot of highway in between point A and point B.

So I drove in a random direction, turning whenever the mood hit me. I thought about how long it'd be before I'd need to get a job (not for awhile, I have a strangely large amount of money), if I got everything I needed out of my room, and how now that I have a nice, classic car I'd need to name it.

I wondered if I'd regret this. I find it highly unlikely, but not impossible.

….

AN 2.0: Magically appearing half-assed AU! Should I have warning that he's leaving South Park? Opps- one of my proofreaders keeps yelling at me to put up some proper warnings and I keep having to remind her that I don't have a real plan yet. I mean, the secondary characters in this are so depressingly minor and I'd just be repeating how much Craig honestly dislikes them and how whiney they are and so on. On the bright side, guess who's going to be in the outside world? Tweek! Woo for the little spaz. And review, or I promise I will procrastinate with the meeting of Tweek and they'll be completely leaving South Park unless I'm told otherwise. Also- the naming of the car takes place on my profile page.


	7. Chapter 7

AN: I still hate my English teacher. And time travel. Is it just me, or is Craig a little out of character this chapter? Eh. Anyway, Elko's real, as for the motel- I'm not sure. Moving on-

Chapter Seven: A Road Trip

The motel I'm staying in is horrible. There's a prostitute and his john in the room next to me and a chick who hasn't stopped crying for the last six hours. I've considered strangling all three.

Well, maybe not the prostitute. He's hot. I may have been able to find a use for him.

The noisy company isn't even the worst part- they could mostly be blocked by some Foo Fighters. No, it's the room itself that makes it so horrible. The sheets have a strange yet distinctive crusty feeling to them which I'm not going to analyze, the bed itself feels like something a hobo would be dragging along with it, the rug is soggy- soggy, not plush-and the room in general looks like the kind of place that's been home to more than one urolagina, emetophilia, and coprophilia fueled orgies.

I can recite a lot of fetishes and phobias. Honestly, I don't remember why I can. I grew up in South Park, who knows.

Anyway, despite my icky fetish motel room, I don't regret leaving South Park.

This is because, for some odd reason, the room doesn't really put me off.

No, that's not quite true. I'd be much more content if I wasn't in this shithole. But I'm sure as hell not homesick.

It's weird feeling, not wanting to be here yet definitely not wanting to go back. The only real option is to keep moving, which I'm planning on doing.

I'm in Elko, Nevada. I don't really know I got here, or where I'm going. After driving for two days, I can honestly say I'm not really looking forward to another couple. It feels like twelfth grade English class all over again- completely and utterly pointless. But I know I need to keep going, because I'm not there yet. I don't know where There is yet, or how I'll know it's There.

And what makes There so special? I'm not even convinced it exists. There will probably just be the town where I get sick of cum infested sheets and need some cash.

… God damn it, I thought about it.

I throw the quilt down on the floor and pray there aren't as many infectious diseases down here.

…

The next town I stop at is right next the Oregon/Nevada border. I decided not to hazard the truck stop. You can imagine why.

There, in this town that's barely a town, is where I decided to stop long enough to have Kenny mail me my diploma.

There is but one reason and I chose this town. The road side restaurant, which didn't even have a name other than a sign saying RESTAURANT on its roof, has the best pancakes I've had in a long fucking time.

I have a massive soft spot for pancakes. Like the size the soft stop for my sister should be. It's illogical. I don't know why. And yet I love me some pancakes.

And RESTAURANT is the home of the King of Delicious Pancakes.

And the motel was ten times more peaceful than the others, so that helped too. But mostly it was the pancakes.

I called Kenny the second I left RESTAURANT while walking back to the motel.

"'lo?" he answered.

"Kenny, you have my papers?"

"Craig? Dude, you left a fucking mess behind you, man. Do you know what I had to go through to get this?"

"Um… say I told you to get it for me?" Although I knew that there was no way in hell anyone back in South Park would make it that easy for me.

"Hell no, man! I tried to tell Principle Victoria beforehand, but she didn't believe me. And then your mom…" he trailed off.

"Went all Mel Gibson on your ass?"

"Dude, she made Mel Gibson look like a Ambien-popping bunny rabbit. 'There is no way in hell I'm allowing you to assist my son in ruining his life, he abandoned his family, blahbitty blah.' There was also many threats against our male bits. You don't even want to know how long it took me to convince her that I didn't know where you are."

"Sorry about that." About time someone else got it from her. Jesus.

"Yeah, whatever. Thanks for leaving the window open for me."

"Somehow, I think you'd have managed to get in if I hadn't."

"Why, I never!" he exclaimed in voice that hinted that he may have been the one responsible for a string of break-ins when we were in middle school.

He was only stealing condoms (and other sex-related things,) so don't think to poorly of Kenny.

"Anyway, where are you?" I gave him the address. "Okay, cool. So do you even want to know what's happening or no?" I think Kenny is the only person who has any grasp on my apathy. He's the only one who ever asks if I care.

As it is, though, drama fascinates me. From the outside exclusively.

"Yeah, sure, give me a summary."

"Okay, so to begin with, your mom is running around giving Kyle's mom a run for her tenth consecutive Bitch of the Year Award- ow, man, there was no need to kick me." There was the distinctive noise of some guy yelling, presumably Kyle, something along of, "Stop calling my mom a bitch!" and then some hissed words in the language that can only be described as Bestfriendish.

A part of my heart that's usually dormant gave a pinch.

"Shut up, you two sound like an old married couple," I snap at them. Dead silence. I wondered for a second if there was more truth behind those words than I'd originally thought.

I didn't have time to think long before Kyle yelled, "Oh, fuck off. You're just an lonely old man stuck in a teenager's body." Kyle's a bit of a yeller. I believe it to be a Triple J defense mechanism.

"Yeah, yeah, shut up both of you. Anyway, your sister and Clyde look like shit, but that may just be from fucking too much. Sorry, bro."

"Eh, whatever. Let them go at it like rabbits."

"If they ask, I'm going to say that you said, 'Nothing can stand in the way of true love, let thy go forth and spread thy love to every corner of the Earth.'"

"Might want to leave out the 'thy's. Craig wouldn't say thy if there was a gun to thy head," Kyle added. Apparently I'm on speaker.

"And people are talking about you a lot. They're saying you're leaving because you knocked up Anne, or Bebe, or both. Ran off with a girlfriend, ran off with a boyfriend, ran because you're family is abusive, ran to find your father, ran to abandon your family, which I know none of is true. Apparently they haven't heard about Ruby and Clyde yet. My favorite is that you're hunting down a secret girlfriend who ran off with your father after braking up with you once she found out you slept with some mysterious guy, which caused a panic result of going and knocking up Anne. A bunch of bullshit, you know? They didn't give a flying shit about you until you did something interesting that they could gossip about."

Ah, Kenny, sometimes you're just the most amazingly smart person on Earth.

"Oh, wow, this had never occurred to me. Maybe I should leave… oh wait. I did." Kenny snorts.

"Same here. I gotta go. Call sometime, okay? Kyle's probably going to leak that I have your number at some point, so you've been warned."

"I am _not_-" and I hang up. I consider just throwing my cell phone against a wall now, because Kyle is a horrible liar. I don't because, really, I don't exactly have money to throw away.

…

I don't call Kenny and Kenny doesn't call me. I don't think he's expecting me to, and I know I don't expect him to. I don't want him to, either.

I just want to move on, you know? Never have to think about that place and its problems ever again. None of my problems, either.

Although tonight, when the sheriff was fucking the file keeper next door, all I can think is that I want to go home. But I don't have a home. That's what I'm looking for.

Home is where the heart is.

_Well, you don't have a heart, so what the hell do you think you're doing?_

Looking of both?

…

AN 2.0: HA HA HA, NO TWEEK FOR YOU!

Okay, sorry. I tease because I love. Anyway, Tweek has like 99.7% of showing up next chapter unless I suddenly decide something else needs to happen before that, but that's unlikely. Unless, of course, you don' t review. If such an occurrence should happen, then suddenly the Apocalypse will start and Craig will have to do through the trial of reorganizing the Library of Congress and you will be informed in explicit detail, and I promise you that Tweek will not be the librarian. It'd be a horrible twenty-chapter arc.


	8. Chapter 8

AN: Woopsies. I messed up the chapter line-up. Or maybe FF is being a tard. Either way, I apologize for that, and it's fixed now. The end of an era is here! Also, I've figured out why Craig was weird last chapter- no people. No people= content and mellow Craig. We can't have that, though, can we?

…

Chapter Eight: A Meeting

I finally stop in a town called Lola after I drove past a road called Chasey Lane. Kenny would be so proud.

After wooing the cougar who is now my landlord I drove around town. Despite the fact that it looks like a typical rundown small town, it sprawls. It's like five ten South Parks were coincidentally built right next to each other and decided to join together.

The main difference appears to be that I don't know anybody here. I could live with that.

It doesn't take long to settle into my apartment because I don't have a lot of shit. It was a tiny-ass place. The kitchen consists of a mini fridge, a counter, and a stovetop. The living room has enough room for a TV (of which I don't own) and a couch (a ugly couch.) And a bookcase, if I wanted one. I'm not much of a book person. I mean, why would I want to read about fake people's problems? Or real people's problems. Or, you know, just people in general.

Digress? Why, I never. Yeah, anyway, upstairs is my bedroom and bathroom. Proportionately for the things that need to be in a room, my bathroom is the largest. I do not understand why. The bedroom's big enough for a bed.

Yes, it could be better. There's only so much wooing can do when you're a straight-out-of-school kid with a bottomed out bank account. At least I'm not black (don't look at me like that, racism exists.)

To be honest I enjoy having this tiny apartment. It's uninviting, uncomfortable, unwelcoming, and obviously isn't actually meant to be lived in- just like me.

…

I may have underestimated the powers of my ugly-ass couch. Like I said, I don't really have a lot of shit. Even the shit I do have I can't do anything with yet because I need to buy some new electrical devices.

That did not stop my bimbo of a neighbor from inviting herself over to introduce herself and not leaving.

Honestly, I wasn't paying attention when she said her name. I was busy staring at her bowling ball sized hoots.

What? If you'd seen those things you would have stared, too. Never before did I think it was possible for boobs to be that big. And, yet, there they are. I resist the urge to poke them. Bet it'd be epic, though. Kenny would die.

Anyway, let's call her Aunt Moonshine. She's named after my actual Aunt Moonshine. You, too, probably have an Aunt Moonshine. She may be a neighbor, Mom's coworker, art teacher, you name it, but you know her. Aunt Moonshine is that free spirited hippie-women that our mother's frown and click their tongues at who scoff at the government, formal education, business suits, bras, and self image in general.

I was never a huge fan of Aunt Mary (her real name.) I found that once you get past the glitz and glamour of bohemia that appears to be so profound at first is usually bullshit when you get right down to it.

After Aunt Moonshine set her vegan cake down on my counter she pushed herself farther into my space, sat down at my ugly couch, exclaimed, "Golly, this couch is comfortable! It actually reminds me of-" and started chatting away my precious time.

I do not appreciate the waste of my precious time. But, you know, I try to give people a chance. It's not my fault they usually piss me off within five minutes me meeting them.

"You look awful young to be living by yourself! How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

"There you do! Too young! You should come live with me, save some money." She has a loud, obnoxious laugh that sounds so horribly bogus that it can't possibly really be fake. "Oh, and then I could introduce you to my niece-" See? Aunt Moonshine. She babbled on for a good twenty minutes about her niece, none of which I paid attention to. Although I did gather than her niece was fourteen.

"Why'd you leave home so soon, sweetie?"

Sweetie?_ Sweetie?_ Do I sound like a _sweetie_ to you? "Mom's a bitch." Please oh please be repulsed by vulgarity.

"Oh, sweetie, I know the feeling!" She inched even closer, laying a hand on my shoulder before… _hugging_ me. If there is one thing I hate it's overly affectionate and friendly strangers. For all they know I may be an axe murderer.

And they really make me want to look into the career path.

"My mother wanted me to go to college to become a pattytrician or something-"

"Pediatrician?"

"Yes! But that just wasn't in my_ soul,_ you know? What right did she have to try and tell me what to do?" Yes, how dare parents try and guide their obviously delusional children in the right path? Not that I can really say that much. I ran from a demanding ho-bag, too."I just want to travel to every corner of the world, just living in the moment." She sighed dramatically. "I mean, I love kids and all but if their parents would just understand the importance of the right diet and spiritual connection then the world wouldn't _need_ pattytricians-"

"Pediatricians."

"Right, I mean there are just so many healing properties of sage you would not _believe_. I mean, not that I'm religious but I'm very spiritual-"

"And I'm not a liar, but you're really interesting." It takes a few seconds of her staring at me blankly for me to realize I said it out loud. "Yeah, now that you've stopped talking after," I look my dead clock before say, "Well, to goddamn long- can you leave? I have shit to do."

She blinked a few times, trying to comprehend the asshole who is now her neighbor before saying, "Well, I, um… just wanted to welcome you-"

"Yes, I feel very welcome, thank you," I reply drily. "Especially since you've been flirting oh so very smoothly for the last however long. Frankly, I think you're a little old for me. I mean, you're what, forty?"

She looked like she's been slapped. "I'm twenty-seven."

"Well then maybe you should spend some less time prancing through sunflowers and tweeking meth, hm?" I stared at her as she felt. Being some of the lucky people who make people uncomfortable just by looking at them, glaring was not necessary.

One neighbor scared off, X amount left.

…

It took three days to find a job. Mostly because I'm a lazy fucker.

My boss' name is Richard I. Tressler. I've always wanted to meet a guy named Richard, just so I could call him Dick all the time and never get in trouble. Now he's my boss, which is even better.

And then I met the guy.

Richard is so fucking pathetic. Even I can't make fun of him.

Not true. I can, and I will. Just not yet.

He has these watery mud eyes that looked like he was about to burst into tears the second someone looked at him the wrong way. He was doughy and mushy and soft in all the wrong ways. It's sad, really.

Well, not too sad. I'm fairly sure I scared him into giving me the job at his music store (why music? The guy looks like he can't handle anything more the Twinkle Twinkle Little Star) merely by keeping eye contact for the whole interview.

Which is how I ended up working at Rit's Music.

Rit's sells pretty much everything related to music. CDs, vinyl, keyboards, guitars, accessories, sheet music, music related books- everything. Definitely enough to keep me entertained for awhile.

Although I was not made aware that I would have a colleague.

Damn it, why is it necessary to have two people on shift at a time? Why? I don't think it is. I guess to stop us from stealing shit. Either way, I'm less than happy.

I walked in on guard, waiting to be mauled by Aunt Moonshine- that'd be just my luck. Instead, there's complete silence. I wonder if I had the wrong time, but then I saw a platinum blond guy sitting on the counter reading a book. He was mouthing something to himself, but I assume it's just a song.

"Hey," I say. He jumps about five feet into the air and somehow manages to land on his feet on the opposite side of the counter. For second he just stared at me like he thinks I'm going to shoot him or something.

Great, I'm working with a crazy jumpy bastard. How fun.

And then he calms down a bit.

"You the, hng, new employee?" he asks. I nod. "Oh. Well, welcome t-to Rit's. Want some coffee?" I nod again. I'm really not much of a morning person. Well, morning + people person. I kind I hate coffee to distract me from tearing the heads off of people who dare talk to me before I've readapted to the world.

The dude walks into the back room. I follow him. I'm not a huge fan of awkwardly standing in a silent room waiting for someone to come and get me.

Plus, now that I think about it, he reminds me of someone. Since I cannot remember who, I shall follow until I do.

While he's OCDing of the coffee I'm observing. He's a fairly small dude, maybe 5'5. His shirt is hanging off his slim shoulders, and his legs are about as thick as my sister's (and she's a skinny bitch) minus the girly curve of them. His blue eyes are trained onto the coffee maker.

Then I notice the twitching.

He kind of makes me think of Thomas, the way that they definitely don't look voluntary and he seems to be ignoring them, so I guess they aren't exactly a new occurrence. He keeps shifting, too, like he can't decide which way is the best way to hold himself. Or maybe he's just had too many cups of coffee already.

God damn it, who is he?

I think he may have been someone I went to school with, but that seems unlikely. Even I can recite the entire South High student body (and now alumni.) No one had moved away since seventh grade. Could it have been before that? Fucking hell.

A friend of mine moved away in fifth grade… what was him name? I remember him existing, but outside of that not so much. Well, I remember being miserable when he left, which was an oddity by the time I was eleven.

…What's his goddamn name? Damn it, damn it, damn it! Twink? No, that's stupid. He does have a weird name, though… Snowball?

"Tweek Tweak!" Fuck yes, that's it.

And then Coffee Guy has a seizure. He looks over at me with wide eyes (holy shit, his eyes are massive) and stares. His mouth twitches and his eyes squint before he stutters out, "H-how do you know m-my name?"

Apparently Coffee Guy is Tweek. Has he always been this jumpy? I hope not. I might be able to pinpoint the exact time of my friend selection started deteriorating, though.

"We went to school together back in elementary school. I was trying to remember your name," I say evenly, hoping it'd somehow calm him down. That's what you're supposed to startled animals, right?

"Oh," he mutters before he looks down. His eyes shift a few times, opens his mouth before clamping it shut again, before looking up at me again. After staring for a second he gets a surprised look. "Craig?" he asks, as clearly as I've ever heard him talk.

"Yeah," I say flatly. And now I'm really hoping he isn't about to start a Good Ol' Days rant or something. That'd be so annoying. I mean, I can barely remember the guy to begin with.

Instead of doing the usual annoying human thing, I see him think for a second before turning away, back at the coffee maker.

"Oh. Well, um, what a coincidence. Welcome to Lola," he said softly.

…

Tweek isn't much of a talker. After serving the coffee he planted himself in the corner and drank his coffee. I felt his eyes on me while I nosed through the counters, but I didn't really feel uncomfortable. Usually I hate it when people watch me. I get all paranoid, usually. I chalk it up to Tweek being harmless.

"Richard should be here soon… to, like, explain shit and stuff," he said later.

"Okay." And back to silence.

Strangely not awkward silence.

Richard did show up soon after and shuffled himself into his office after a muttered greeting. "He'll call for you in a second," Tweek mutters. He got bored somewhere in between now and the coffee, so now he's writing in a notebook.

…What's he writing about?

Dick calls me back and started going through rules and procedures and blah blah blah. He stopped halfway through though. I'm telling you, it's the staring. It freaks people out. The most I got out of it was that Tweek was my "shift buddy" and we'd have all the same shifts unless we work overtime.

Tweek is still writing in the notebook when I get back out. I sit down as he says, "Don't listen to him. He leaves by ten and, ngh, then it'll just be _us_." He squeaked a little at "us." He must have Tourette's or something. Seriously. I would recognize the harassed look of not being to control yourself.

"So what made you come to Lola?"

"Just drove. Figured a town named after a transvestite couldn't be that bad." Queue vacant look.

Instead I got a, "The Kinks?"

"No, the other song about Lola the Tranny."

"Don't be a dick, Craig."

I was not expecting that. He looks like a anti-confrontation kind of person. Actually, he probably is. Just a guess from the massive full-body twitch and the _Oh Shit_ look on his face. "Don't beat the crap out of me."

"I'm not going to beat the crap out of you."

Honest.

…

AN 2.0: It's Tweek, bitches! Who's happy? You better be. God, trying to map Tweek out as a character was a _pain in the ass. _You just wait and see why. MWHA HA HA HA. Ahem. Anyone see the Tosh reference? Sweet. Review.


	9. Chapter 9

AN: Holy reviews, batman! I love y'all. Almost as much as you all love Tweek. Speaking of Tweek, this chapter is in his POV.

…

Chapter Nine: Calmer Today

I took more meds than I usually do today. Most of anyway, I want to be able to see straight. My brain still feels like it's been blended in a morphine smoothie. I have to deal with it, though. I don't want my new coworker knowing how fucked up I am.

**You shouldn't have taken them. Your mind's a mess. It's not safe- **stabs into my brain like a red hot needle.

Richard had called yesterday to tell me that he'd hired a "shift buddy." Seriously? Who says shit like that? My boss does.

He'll be fine, I suppose.

**No he won't.**

Maybe I should have taken that last pill.

**No, you're fine. You can't force can't get rid of your sense. That'd be dangerous. Do you know what would have happened to you by now? You'd be dead. The FBI or the government or the gnomes would have gotten you and sent you to Scottsdale…**

They're being persistent today. Just what I need. My crazies are still here through my meds, they're being loud, I can feel a migraine coming on, I have to deal with a stranger who**…will probably hate you and try to kill you..**. Unlikely. I don't do well with strangers.

I fucking hate my brain. Why did it decide to mutiny? Brains aren't allowed to make decisions for themselves, but there goes mine, spewing ideas that I (kinda) know aren't true. The hard part being, of course, that I can't tell the bullshit from my own thoughts. I try not to think too much.

Why do I have a job again? "To prove that you can be a contributing member of society." But I can't. They (all the theys, some of them are real) will never let me leave home. My parents make me hand over my pay check. They say it's paying for rent, so it's almost like taking care of myself.

**They're lying.**

Something we can agree on. Different reasons though. Personally, I don't believe it's because they want to keep me on location to observe me for the CIA**… You're wrong...**It's to keep me here. I'm not trusted to save up my own money to actually try to rent out my own apartment. Or a car. Or anything that's over the price of a hundred dollars.

**Stop making excuses for them!- **I put in my headphones, crank System of a Down 'til my ears bleed, and make myself comfortable on the counter at Rit's. I really don't like hearing it rant about my parents. They're only for me to bitch about.

The too-goddamn-loud music brings my migraine into full force, and even through the haze in my brain I can feel the pain of it. It's not unwelcome though, because I can never hear anything through migraines.

I still hate the haze, though. I can feel it everywhere. My whole body feels like it has fallen asleep. I can't really feel it, just phantom limbs floating around near my body that I should probably be able to control more.

The worst part, though, is my head. It feels like my brain had suddenly been caught into the middle of a cloud of smog that's soaking into the very center in my brain. Back when my father used to smoke, I'd always try to get away from the smell. But I couldn't. It was everywhere. No amount of moving away could make it go away. It's like that.

The drugs don't even calm me down or take away the pain. They just paralyze me, slow me down. They stop me. Which I guess is what people want, anyway.

_"Aerials in the sky, when you lose your small mind, you free your life…"_ Yes, well, that's all fine and dandy, but does anyone know who to shrink your mind?

You say drugs and I will hunt you down and kill you in your sleep.

I didn't notice anyone enter. That is until I heard a, "Hey."

Surprisingly enough, I don't react well to surprises.

**Assassin! Spy! FBI agent! Hitman! Safety manuever 5-oh-19- **oh, _shut up_.

I pull myself together and say, "You the **…safety hazard**... new employee?" He nods.

…...**..…**

"Welcome... **Die in a pit**... to Rit's." I hate talking. I can never say things right. They always get twisted around and confused in my brain before theycan leave my mouth. Either through interruptions from **them** or somthing else, it's never quite right. "Want some coffee?" "Cuz I want some damn coffee.

Oh, coffee. We have had long and complicated relationship. It used to be what my parents put my meds in when I was younger. The strange calm feeling probably came from the downers in it. You can imagine my surprise when I found that out.

Now it's just a clean safety blanket.

Just as the coffee was ready New Guy practically yells (lies, I just don't like anything about inside voices) "Tweek Tweak!" Holymotherfuckingshit**they**wererighthowdoesheknowmyname!

Somehow I get that out in a semi-intelligible sentence, and he replies, "We went to school together back in elementary school. I was trying to remember your name."

"Oh." I was going to say okay. It didn't find itself all the way out. So smooth. How the hell does one learn how to talk like him? His voice is like a nice cup latte. I was trying to figure out what to say. What are you supposed to say? 'Wow, it's been forever! What's your name again? I am a way cooler person than I was back then! Time as changed so much! A ha ha ha ha!' Jesus.

So I try to figure it out for myself. It doesn't take as long as it should have.

Other than the guy being really kinda hot..**those are the ones you have to look out for…**. fuck off, he looks a lot different from anyone I remember.

…Of course, we were eleven last time we saw each other, a change was pretty much guaranteed. So no look there. Then I looked into his eyes.

His, "I don't give a fuck, please don't talk to me and go away, for the love of all things holy I DON'T CARE," could only be those of one person.

"Craig?" No way is this Craig Tucker.

**Dear God, not Craig Tucker.**

Oh, but it is. "Yeah." I can still recognize his, "I don't want to talk," voice.

…**..see, he hates you. Don't bother talking to him…**

"Oh, Well,…what a coincidence. Welcome to Lola."

We don't say much after that. I listen to _Scarecrow and Fungus _and try to record the notes while he just gets himself acquainted with his new workspace. Richard comes in and explains the rules to him, I explain the real rules to him, and then it's silence.

_Try to make conversation, you dolt! That's what normal people do._

Who was that again? Probably me. I don't think they would actually try to help me with such a logical thing to do.

"So what made you come to Lola?" See, that wasn't too bad.

"Just drove. Figured a town named after a transvestite couldn't be that bad." Oh, no he didn't.

"The Kinks?"

"No, the other song about the Lola the Tranny." But he did. Of, course, I have to go and mess things up.

"Don't be a dick, Craig." I swear, my mouth and my brain need to have a conference and figure out a way to work together. It does matter that, like, seven years ago that we were best friends who could cuss each other out. That was the past, and now you just pissed off an schizoid antisocial bastard. The real meaning of antisocial, not the one that gets thrown at me by random people who think they can magically diagnose me after being about me for a few minutes. I have shrinks to do that, thank you very much Not that they really count, they usually just open their **Big Book of Fuck Ups and pick one for me because each one of them fits at least a little**. "Don't beat the crap out of me." I'm pathetic. Really. Who says that?

"I'm not going to beat the crap out of."

…...

We didn't talk much. Neither of us are very big talkers. I don't particularly mind the silence, though. I prefer it, in all honesty. Conversations tend to get to be too much for me.

Craig has a very non-safe car that looks like the kind of thing he'd like. The things he enjoys are… were, whatever, really out of what. Love the guinea pig, hate the parents.

Craig fucking Tucker.

I was in love with that guy. For a pathetically long time. I mean, it was a stupid crush in third grade, which I got ever by fifth grade, and then came back full-force with the loneliness that came with moving.

It faded again in **sophomore** year around the time-

Never mind.

My parents are home when I get home. Of course they are. They don't trust me hope alone. I try to sneak in, hoping to make a quick run into my room. They hate it when I do that. I must be up to something right? Can't trust the crazy bastard to not kill himself when he's left alone.

Give me a fucking break. But I never get a break. Not even today.

"Honey, you're home!" Mom calls, sticky sweet. I really hate terms of endearment. They make me feel like a child. "I didn't hear you come in."

"I was trying to get up into my room." Lie, you stupid bastard, lie! I could see her look of distrust before it was hidden beneath her smile.

"Why is that? Did something happen at work?" Maybe I just want to be left alone once in awhile like a normal person. But that'd just give the, "Sweetie, you aren't a normal person." You can imagine how much I love that speech.

"No, I'm fine. Everything's fine." I can hear the aggravation in my voice. It will be read as something being wrong other than annoyance and I will be held captive until I can prove that I'm not going to go completely loco.

I'd like to mention that have not gone completely loco in a long ass time.

"Why don't you come help me bake some cookies?"

"I don't feel like it."

"But you love cooking!" I really don't. She and my dad have made up some hobbies for me to like because a shrink told them it'd be good for me. I think it went over their heads for me to choose a hobby for myself. Which I have. That they call silly.

"I…" I can't really say anything because then she'll think I'm avoiding her and then she'd have my current shrink on the phone faster than I can stop being pissed at both of them (another thing that is obviously connected to my disease) and I'll have to spend an hour explaining that maybe I'm just not happy with them.

"And how does that make you feel?" Literally.

"Fine. Whatever."

We spend two hours baking before I could escape in which I demonstrated my lack of self-control by stealing cookie dough. I wonder, despite the fact she drags me along to her cooking, painting, and flower arranging classes ("He's a sick boy, I need him with me,"), how freaked out she'd be if I told her I'm gay.

Of course, she wouldn't believe me. She wouldn't believe me if I told her that I was straight, either. I think she got it into her head that I am not interested in sex at all. One of the reasons she freaked the hell out when she found my porn stash a few years ago. You can only imagine my lack of surprise when there was an anaphrodisiac hidden amongst my next batch of medication.

Understand why I always Google my meds before taking them?

I try to make a run for it, but before I could really make a mad dash for it Mom asks, "How are the voices, sweetie?"

"They're fine." Actually, they've been silent for awhile, but now that you've gone and mentioned them they'll be back soon enough.

…

My room looks distinctly like a crazy person lives in it.

Or, as I like to try to explain to my parents, like a teenager lives in it.

Papers are thrown all over the place along with dead pens and pencils, clothes scattered, posters and papers on the wall, CDs piled everywhere, my keyboard stuck in the corner.

I need to get a new cord for the keyboard. My old one got stepped on one too many times. Hell if this stops me from practicing.

The best thing about occasional hallucinations? Projecting imagination is kind of really easy. I don't care if practicing on an imaginary keyboard looks silly, it's effective until I can use my real one.

Although, judging from Dad's look right now, he does not approve.

"What are you doing, son?" Same sugary forced tone as Mom.

"I'm communicating with the fizzerhorts through the fradiddle signals that the cat who's sitting right next to me, whose name is Apple Forty-Two, taught me." Ha, I made a funny.

Dad looks like he's been slapped in the face, which then changes to the, "Son, you're going back to the psych ward," look, and I remember that I am not allowed to make funnies.

"Dad. I'm joking. It's a joke. People do that on occasion."

"You shouldn't joke about such things." Fuck off. Nothing should be joked about with you two. You both think I think everything I say is true.

"What do you want?" I ask.

"I've got to do some yard work. Do you want to help?" Damn it, no, I do not. I would like to be _alone_. For once in my live I would appreciate being alone and being able to do whatever the hell I want.

Instead I just stare.

"It would be good for you. Get some fresh air, shake of the mold..**mold? Shower. Now. Get it off..**."….. Never use metaphors around crazy people.

**"I need to take a shower**," I say.

"But-"

"But nothing! You tried to get me to do something I didn't want to do and in the process freaked me out so now I need a goddamn shower!" There is going to be parental paranoid hell to pay for that. Besides, what makes you think I'd enjoy going outside? Every other day I think the sun's getting close so we're going to crash into it and burn to death. I'm too weak to do anything athletic. There's nothing out there for me.

….

Once **I'm **completely sure that there is no way in hell there's mold anywhere on me, I get out of my shower. I consider just staying in here. Lie and say my bottle of shampoo started trying to explain _Lost_ to me and I was stuck there. They'd believe it. They don't know what I hear or don't hear, nor do they really care, I think. They heard that stupid, all consuming word _schizophrenic _(one I can never quite say isn't true) and that was the end all, be all.

My parents were sitting on my bed,. They were holding hands, supporting each other. Waiting to give me another speech in their condescending voices (they always talk to me that way, though) about how fucked up I am. They think they're supporting me, too. And they are, sometimes in some ways.

They're suffocating me. They treat me like a scared little kid who doesn't stand a chance against the real world. Like my mind is completely gone, like I can't live without their guiding hands, without their endless knowledge, like I could never take care of myself and I need an itinerary to follow to ever survive today and tomorrow and the day after that. They don't seem to get we can't live like this.

Them and **they** are strangely similar.

It's always been like this. Everyone I've ever met who knows I have this disorder turns me into this weak little helpless bitch who needs help. There had only been one person who hadn't given a fuck.

And Craig probably doesn't even remember.

…...

AN 2.0: Yes, Tweek is a little crazy. Yes, I will attemt to make this slightly overused storyline original. And just to remind you- this isn't a horror story or anything. I wasn't planning on making Tweek crazy, but then I saw an episode of Criminal Minds and I was like, "Hey, it's he's twitching like Tweek! I should totally put that in! … But it's already been done a few times, so I shouldn't bother." Ten minutes later: "Damn it, it's too late." Anyhoo, review and tell me if this format's too confusing or causes too many headaches and such.


	10. Chapter 10

AN: And back to Craig's POV. I'll go back to Tweek's sometime.

…

Chapter Ten: A Rarity

I'm not quite sure how Tweek's feet got in my lap.

Well, I know _how_ they got there. The back counter at Rit's is a counter that begs to be sat upon. And everyone does. I had been checking inventory (somehow, the count got mixed up on a White Stripes CD I'd been wanting- opps) so Tweek had taken over the counter, sprawled out writing away in his notebook. I'd gotten him to move his feet for me to sit down. And then he moved his feet back.

So that is how it happened. The real questions are 1) why did he decide it was okay? and 2) why am I letting him?

Me and Tweek haven't really talked. He's really inside his own head most of the time, and… well, you know me. Neither of us are very social, that much is obvious. It's a comfortable, mutual silence, but silence none the less.

I keep the silence because I don't really want to know him or anyone else. Allowing physical contact does not keep someone at a distance. I don't get anything out of his feet. Why don't I just push him off?

But I guess it's not really hurting either. It's not like his legs take up much room, anyway.

So here we sit, me reading and Tweek doing his Tweek-like things. The bell rang, causing Tweek to jerk, withdrawing his feet. My lap feels strangely empty … what? Shut up. We'd been sitting there for a long time. I heard him mutter, "Oh shit."

"What?" I ask, not looking up.

"I hate this bitch," he hisses back. "So act like a dick."

"I resent the fact you assume I'd act rudely to a lady," I say flatly and I fold over the page of my book and put it down.

"Seriously, Craig? Shut up and do as your told. And this woman is no lady." The chick that had walked in is a eighteen-ish year old blonde who wasn't particularly hot. She definitely isn't ugly, but she's nothing special. Even, boring, eyes with a straight, boring nose with thin, boring lips. Her best feature was the blondness, even that is obviously fake (I only like real blonds, thank you very much- unless they're Anne, in which case I'm not interested.)

She carried herself like she was Satan's gift to a male's libido. I suspect that to be due to experience.

Note to chicks- Don't act like you're the hottest shit because you can get laid. If you're easy, it doesn't matter how (not) hot you are.

Her shirt is slung low enough for it not to matter that her boobs are little lopsided.

She walks straight over to the counter and says, "Hey, Tweekers!"

"Hello, Cynthia." He smiled at her, and I swear to God, I had never seen a better _I Fucking Hate Your Bones _smile.

"Whose your friend?" she said, smiling over at me.

"Coworker. Craig Tucker." I just stare back at her.

"Well, Craig, nice to meet you! I'm Cynthia Gardner, but you can call me Cindi. With an I." Well, isn't that special? I grunted at her and switch my gaze lower. Why Kenny would bother doing this for reasons other than hoping to put someone off, I do not know. Really, why do guys love tits so much? They're just two awkwardly placed bowls of fat that sit on chests of females everywhere.

"Is there anything we can do for you?"

"Well, I'd like for Craig to stop staring down my shirt."

"You're not leaving much to look down into," I say. She giggles. I was not aware I was flirting. I hate when I do that.

"Hello. Innocent bystander who doesn't want to go voyager here."

"Whatever. Your mom wanted me to come and tell you that your, eh, _cooking _classes start too early today so you'll have to go over to Granny Mable's house this afternoon. Still getting babysat, Tweekie? How sweet." She made me want to knock her pretty little teeth out with her next smile.

He just glares.

"You are such a pathetic fag." Break her nose, tear out her earrings, break her nails (which hurts more than you think it does.) Tweek was getting so red he'd put a tomato to shame.

And then the little bitch had the nerve to turn to me and say, "Well, Craig, I _totally _look forward to getting to know you better."

"Unless you want to fuck I don't really see a reason to ever see you again." I saw Tweek glaring holes into my skull, so I added, "But not even then. I'm trying not to catch any STDs this year."

You'd think if she was really angry she wouldn't sway her ass so much as she stormed away.

"Seriously?" He was glaring at me, face still red and twitching.

"What? Unwanted advances piss chicks off."

"Yeah, but she's a _whore_. She'd bone the local priest, and trust me, that dude's an ugly old man." Due to how snippy he sounded, I was going to let him sit there pissed, but on the other hand…

"So… _cooking classes_?"

I got assaulted. He does not hit like a girl. "Shut the hell up! My mom's forcing me to go!" I really didn't mean to start laughing at him. He practically screams in aggravation and resumes slapping me. "I hate you _so_ much!"

After letting him go for a minute it takes me a matter of roughly fifty seconds to pin him against the wall, wrists secured above his head. He keeps wiggling, though. Give the tiny guy some credit, he made a valiant effort to get away.

But I still ended up on top of him on the counter, completely pinned. He huffed indignantly, and I take it as a white flag.

It took me a minute to realize how… PG-13 our position was. Our limbs were entangled together, hands joined, faces centimeters away from each other, us breathing heavily, him still flustered.

Hm.

"Get off me," he moaned. I could do that. Or…

"Nope."

"No? Damn it, Craig, why do you have to be such a damn ass!" I just settle in for a nap. He did a strange groan-hiss sound- it was quite strange, really. "Comfortable?" he snaps.

"Nah, you're too bony." And then my pillow kicks me and moves away.

…

"Subway."

"I hate Subway. And we had it for lunch yesterday."

"Well then, you shouldn't have asked. You knew what I was going to say."

"Maybe I was just trying to be polite. Stop being a douche."

"Well, what do you want, Oh Mighty Picky One?"

"I dunno."

"Then why are you complaining about Subway! It's healthy and shit."

"You only like it because it's _boring_. And I hate healthy stuff."

"Then you're going to get fat and die."

"Craig. Look at me. I couldn't get fat if I sat in one place and ate nothing but Twinkies for a year."

"Well, you'd definitely die from malnutrition."

"Stop being a smartass."

"Better than being a dumbass."

"People, ghn, hate smartasses."

"Only dumbass people." Us, bicker? Never.

While we were discussing whose more annoying (dumbasses, he's just running around in circles now) and what to have for lunch ("Damn it, Craig, we've have had Subway three days in a row!" So? "So you're an ass!" His logic is something to wonder.)

"Okay, how about this," he takes a deep breath, which is what he always does when he's preparing to get an idea across, "I go over to Tai's and get what I want and I'll get you a kiddie PB & J."

He really hates PB & Js. I don't understand why, it's completely illogical. "Where is Tai's?"

"A few blocks that way," he says, waving in a general left direction. "It only takes a few minutes to get there from here."

I ponder for a second and then say, "Five PB & Js."

He rolls his eyes at me. "You are a… child." He stops in the middle of sentences sometimes. I can literally see himself reorganize the sentence in his mind, eyebrow scrunched in concentration (one eyebrow is practically always twitching, the other is a signal of _I'm Thinking_.) "Dish it." I hand him over a ten and he's out the door.

…

He's been gone for awhile. Tweek, the little hypocrite, hates complicated things more than I do so it's not like he would order some… I dunno, French Caviar Frog Leg Special or something.

Someone had came a few minutes ago, so I could probably hazard a little wayward wondering.

It wasn't hard to find him. He was making out with his apparent boyfriend at the corner.

I can't really describe the sudden feeling that suddenly boiled its way into me right then.

I stalked my way over to the happy couple. "Hate to break this up, but someone has to get their ass back to work if they expect me to not hack a nice chunk of change off the top," I say. They break apart fast.

"Shitcraig." Wasn't aware that was one word. His freaking eyes blew up and he started blushing. After picking the bag off the ground (seriously?) he slinks over next to me. Freaking cute sonuvabitch…

Boyfriend Boy looks like Cindi's boyfriend. Tall, muscular, brunette, the kind of hot that usually gets overrated…

I could probably kick his ass. Of course, I could probably kick Muhammad Ali's ass on a good day.

"Hey, I'm-"

"Yeah, don't care, have to get to work, bye," I interrupt, walking back to Rit's. I could hear Tweek scurrying after me. Fortunately, my legs are a lot longer than his are.

"Craig, wait-"

"What? You wanted to take a break to make out with your boyfriend. Couldn't just say that?"

"Dude, Craig-" I speed up. "Damn it, Craig, stop being an over-sized jerk and wait up."

I don't know why, but I slow down to let Tweek catch up. "To begin with, Connar and I have hated each other sense I moved here."

"So? I've fucked people I hate before." Okay, honestly, I may have done more than make out with Anne.

"Whore. He's _not_ my boyfriend."

"Fuck buddy, whatever."

"Craig!"

"Yeah, yeah, okay, whatever."

"No, don't-"

"Tweek." I reach out and give him one armed sideways Man Hug. "I'm kidding. Not your boyfriend. What the hell were you doing, then?"

He shrugs. "No one wants to beat up a masochist." He somehow must have seen my eyebrow up because he added, "Psh, not that I'm actually a masochist! Don't give me that look."

"Whatever you say, Tweekers."

…

AN 2.0: Review pleeeaaassseee.


	11. Chapter 11

AN: Guess who has a massive science project to turn in Tuesday that she hasn't even started yet and is writing instead? I am! So I'll finish this and go start that. To those who thought last chapter left some questions- I'm not one for dragging things out. And onward!

**…**

Chapter 11: An Old Friend

Old hags seem to adore Tweek. Everyone seems to be in love with him, though. Half of our customers are middle aged ladies (and their daughters) coming to gush over him. I can see they make him uncomfortable, though. The way he tightens up, the way his stuttering gets worse, the way he stops swearing and talking all together, the way he tries to hide behind me (which is starting to cause a strange protective feeling in me.)

I can't figure out why he won't just tell them to fuck off.

But, because I know he never will, I'm a jerk enough for both of us. I see their looks of shock and disapproval, but they don't matter. He may yell at me for being too much of a douche, but I know what he's really thinking.

We were best friends once upon a time.

I'm not going to lie and say that the second I saw his pretty face all the memories came rushing back to me of us skipping through fields of daisies. But I can recognize him. I know what his twitches mean and when to back off and remind him that I'm not going to kill him.

And I know to stock up of gummy bears. Not worms, bears. Worms freak him out more than the gummy body parts do.

After a particularly haggy hag left (she looks like no one had ever hazarded the barren land between her legs and I was kind enough to inform her of this.) Tweek is currently trying really fucking hard not to laugh. "You r-really shouldn't have done that. She's an evil gossiper. Your name will be mud," he forced out in between harsh _I'm Not Laughing!_ breathes.

"Don't care." He just shook his head at me. "What? Do you have a secret crush on-"

"Jesus, don't even finish that sentence. _That_ was Ms. Warren. Loathe her with a passion. She was my… ninth grade algebra teacher. Treated me like a fucking retard... of course, her and my mom just love to join together and talk about how s-special I am." I roll my eyes. Tweek, for sure, is not an idiot. The dude's ambidextrous, and his left handwriting looks suspiciously like my handwriting right up until sixth grade. He did my homework fairly consistently until he moved away.

And by that I mean all my homework. He was very paranoid about me failing and leaving him behind to deal all the rest of the fuckers in our grade. Or me passing and leaving him behind.

**….**

Tweek started coming over to my apartment every time his parents were out. We don't do much, just lay around and listen to Tweek's infinite amount of CDs and records, today being Vitamin String Quartet Day. "I can play piano, you know," he says suddenly from my couch, which seems to draw people like moths to a flame. Seriously, I don't know what it is about that couch, but _damn_. I wonder if it can get me laid.

"Really? Since when?" I sit on top of him. After much kicking and wiggling we're both comfortable.

"Ninth grade. Needed something to do." I snort. I had been trying for a fucking long time to get him to do something other than spaz back in elementary. I inform him of this and he just shrugs. "I remember. I had something to do."

"Yeah, like what?"

He shrugs again. "_Tweek._"

"J-jesus, I dunno! I had p-people to distract me…" he trails off.

In other words, he had me. I felt a muscle spasm in my cheek at the thought.

After awhile he had head back to his house. "Why don't you stay longer?" I ask.

"Because my parents will be home soon. They don't know I'm out, and they wouldn't like it if…"

"I hate your parents."

"I know, Craig." And then he left.

I never liked his parents. They hate me, too, and we'd never been shy about showing our true emotions to each other. I'm sure they banned him from seeing me more than once, but he ignored them. He had always listened to me more than he had his parents, something they absolutely resented. I wish I could say it was more of a battle, but it really wasn't. We'd just ignore them and keep seeing each other. Even as they literally banned me from their house I'd just keep walking in. That is, until they called the police on me that one time for breaking and entering. After that Tweek just came to my house for awhile, but he hated my family, so we just met somewhere else.

What I'm getting at is that it was impossible to separate us. No matter how much his parents rallied and got every other parent in town to think I was a bad influence and got me into Mr. Mackey's every fucking day for some reason or another, there would be no separating of the Craig & Tweek.

Then they decided to move away, taking Tweek with them. I mean, what the hell were they thinking? He could barely handle the stress of a town he'd been adapting to sense he was born, where at least he had me, and then they hike him up and away? Are they really that oblivious to what's right for him?

The answer to that question is yes. They've always been that way. I had always done more for him than they ever had. He would have clawed himself apart without me.

_He's survived seven years without you._

But he hasn't. I can see it in him- how sick he is. I wonder what's causing it and what I can do to fix it, because there's no way my Tweek is staying this way.

A huge part of me just wants to lock him in my apartment and never let him leave, just so I can keep an eye on him.

**…**

"Hey, look, it's your boyfriend," I say, spotting Guy-Who-Tweek-Didn't-Make-Out-With across the street.

"Oh, for the love of Christ, Craig. Connar and I _hate_ each other."

"Sure didn't look like you two hate each other." _Whack_. "There's no need for kicking, Tweek."

"Well, if you'd just keep your facts straight-"

"The facts are looking very not straight. And _ow_, will you please stop assaulting me."

"No, I will not. If you _must_ know-"

"I do."

"Connar has always found it hilarious to harass me. I am neither capable of beating the crap out of him nor clever enough to intimidate him with my words, so I discovered that the only way to make him uncomfortable was throwing myself at him." He frowns. "And that's starting to not work so much. Fuck."

That pisses me off. "Oh."

"Don't go punching him next time you run into him," Tweek says, apparently reading my mind.

"I won't. But I will next time he gives you trouble." Tweek rolls his eyes, but he's smiling, too.

**…**

I didn't see Tweek really freak out for a few weeks. It's impossible to be around Tweek for an extended amount of time without seeing him act weird. But stuttering and staring rather intensely at nothing and practically getting himself into a catatonic state is nothing.

He was spending the night at my house. His parents were taking a vacation away from him (those fuckers should have nothing to do with him, anyway.) He's supposed to be staying at him aunt's house, but she can never remember when he's supposed to come over. So he came over here instead.

We were sprawled out on the couch next to each other, and halfway through the third Saw movie (you'd think he wouldn't like horror movies as much as he does) when I felt Tweek tense up. It takes one glance to realize that something isn't quite right. His eyes are blown up, staring out the window. He curls himself up and starts rocking, muttering to himself quietly.

"Tweek?" I sit up, reaching out to him. He jerks away as soon as my hand touches his arm. His whole body is shaking. He looks tense enough to break something.

"Tweek," I say softly. No response. "Tweek, nothing's happening." I slowly maneuver myself closer, prying apart him arms. He starts crying. "Calm down, Tweekers. I promise nothing is going to hurt you. I'll keep you safe. You're safe, I promise," I say softly. He's still hyperventilating and sobbing, clinging to me. I just keep muttering calmly, carding my fingers through his hair, rubbing circles on his back. He was shaking worse than he did back when he was addicted to coffee, and every core of my being just wanted this to just _stop._

Eventually, after an hour or so of soothing he passes out with a vice grip on my shirt.

After I'm sure he's not going to wake up again I sling him over my shoulder, intending to leave him on the bed and sleep on the couch… but he wouldn't let go.

I debated whether I should just take off my shirt and let him have it.

And I was about to, but then I look at Tweek again and he just looks so… pitiful. Eyes still red from crying, somehow still pouting and looking miserable even though he's asleep, and suddenly I just couldn't _leave_ him.

**…**

AN 2.0: Is it just me or is Tweek not freaked out enough? I dunno. Last bit seems a little choppy. I need to go do science, and you need to review. Please.


	12. Chapter 12

AN: The procrastination has not stopped. Nor has the writing. I have a new strategy to write Tweek (whose POV is used in this chapter)- listen to Napoleon XIV non-fucking-stop. Because the dude's crazier than Tweek. Enjoy.

Chapter Twelve: My Fucking Head

Jesus Christ, I feel like shit.

This always happens after I have a bad night.

**Well, if you weren't being such an idiot it wouldn't have had to happen. I mean, seriously, what the hell were you thinking staying **_**alone **_**with **_**Craig**_** at **_**his apartment. **_**You would have ended up like that frozen bitch in that movie you were watching. **I like Craig.

My head, my freaking head. Tear it off of me, please. Smash it into bits with a hammer. **Oh hell no.**

I wonder if this is what a bad hangover feels like. **You'll never know. Drugs are fucking evil. They're poison, you know. All of it, it'll kill you.**

Why don't you have an off switch. I roll closer into the large and rather pleasant heat sorce-

Wait, what?

**You whore, did you go home with someone last night? What the hell did you do that for! You have AIDs for sure now. Or did you **_**sell**_** yourself? That'd be just like you, going out of your way to do this stupid shit. It's probably a dude, too. Your ass is going to be so **_**sore**_**…**

Hey, hey, woah, hey, it could be that his ass is sore.

**Bitch, please. People don't find prostitutes to fuck **_**them**_**. And your tiny ass isn't fucking anyone anyway.**

It's not impossible.

**Yes it is.**

No-

**Stop arguing, whore. **

God damn it, shut up and let me think!

After a few minutes of trying to remember what the fuck happened yesterday I've come to these conclusions:

1) I am not a prostitute **Only a matter of time…**

2) My ass is not sore **Maybe you're just such a massive whore…**

3) I am sharing a bed with someone. **Whore…**

4) That person is Craig Tucker **Danger!**

5) Craig Tucker was present for my little freak out last night. **See, you went and blew your cover. Now he's going to check you into the crazy house and you're gonna get gang raped.**

Gang rapes happen in prison.

**They can happen anywhere. And it's a **_**crazy house**_**.**

Sixth and final conclusion- I need my fucking meds. **What? No, no, no you're finally sober, it's a good thing…** Right fucking now.

But I really don't want to get up. You see, like most evil bastards, Craig is a cuddler. Honest to God. So now I'm in a nice, warm, secure cocoon of Craig from which I can barely move from (not that I mind.)

**Craig is going to kick your ass for being such a freak and staying here.**

No he's not, shut up!

And yet…

I finally convince myself to get up and move, but then the arm wrapped around me tightens**… Attack, how shit, we're getting attacked!...** I let out a highly unmanly squeak before falling back, arm flailing.

"Where are you going?" Craig's muffled voice says. Muffled, because he was face down into him pillow. Jesus, he's going to _die_ sleeping like that. It'd suck if he died on me right after finally getting him back.

"Um… downstairs?" He shifts, looking after me. Jesus, he's hot**…ho… **His freaking eyes can see straight through you, even half asleep and droopy. As for the rest of him… he's just freaking hot. He's everything you dream of plus that thing that you didn't know you loved until he shows up.

He's staring at me. Please stop staring at me.

"Alright," he says after a minute. "There's some gummy bears in the cupboard next to the fridge." Gummy bears? Did he say gummy bears? I haven't had them in years…

"I love gummy bears," I mutter.

"I know." He remembers? Jesus. That's awesome. I wonder…

"Um, do you have any Snapple by any chance?" He sighs**… See? Look at what you did. You went and overstepped your welcome and now he's pissed… **

"Yes, I have Snapple."

I didn't stay a second longer.

…...

I was halfway through my second bag of bears**…Fatty…** when Craig came down in fresh clothes and everything. Suddenly I felt a little sleazy. "I haven't had these in forever. My parents say-"

"Preservatives are bad, blah, blah, blah."  
"Screw them and trying to force their sitiophobia on me." He stares at me for a second. "Um… sitiophobia is the fear of food."

"I know. You kind of made me memorize them." Did not. Do you remember that? **Nope.**

Jesus, I'm talking to them. I really need my meds. And I'm sure Craig wouldn't lie to me about something like that. Why would he memorize phobias for himself?

"I need to head home," I say, growling at him when he reaches for my Snapple. He frowns at, for the statement or the greed I do not know.

"Why don't you stay?" Oh, just little bit o' crazy boiling my skull. No biggie.

"I really need to get back. There's something I need to do and my parents are gonna get back soon and they'll kill me if they find out I wasn't at Aunt Laura's house last night." He's really frowning at me, doing the Man Slouch in the kitchen chair across from me.

"You know, I really-"

"Yeah, I know, you loathe my parents and wish to steal me away from them," I say rolling my eyes. I don't blame you, I'd hate them too if they weren't my parents. He rolls his eyes at me.

"Whatever. Grab your bears and let's go."

…

I felt like the whole town was watching us as we walked to my house**… Planning your assassination, watching you because you're with **_**him**_**…** I really hate being out in the open (agoraphobia.) But I feel safe walking with Craig. He's the kind of guy who'd punch a guy's (or girl's, his morals are shaky, not that I particularly care) face in, and I like thinking that he'd do it for me.

**You can't trust someone else to take care of you.**

After giving Craig a quick tour of the house, I headed straight to my bathroom, slamming the door behind me and locking the door behind me.

I open the cupboard and see twenty-four bottles of antipsychotics of one sort of another starting me in the face.

I take five different lower strength ones and take a shower, waiting for them to take effect.

I wonder sometimes why they keep getting all these extra bottles. I take the one's I do and all I have is tardive dyskinesia, which is so easy to live with. If I took everything they wanted me to I'd be having seizures, or heart attacks, or dysforia, or my dick could fall off, or I could grow fucking tits…

I get trying to turn my brain off, I do. But Jesus, I can live with some whispers instead of silence if the silence will kill me.

**It will.**

I wonder if they have anything to do with it.

…

Craig had made himself at home on my bed, one of my CDs playing. "How do you know Regina Spektor?" He looks over at me. Have I mentioned how intense his eyes are? 'Cuz they are extremely intense.

"It was on top," he replies, waving his hand at the massive piles of CDs I have.

"Mhm. Move over." I sit next to him. My bed's not really big enough for both of us, so we were pressed together shoulders to toes.

To say it's uncomfortable would be a lie, and to say I didn't kinda wish I had taken a different pill (preferably one of the ones with an impotence side effect) would also be.

I haven't really _not_ been on my meds for awhile, and going back on is making me dopey.

"Jesus, I'm tired," I announce.

"I don't think Jesus cares, Tweek."

"Well, then, he doesn't have to pay attention." My head droops against the wall and I slowly slink down.

"Are you serious? You slept for, like, ten hours last night."

"And now I'm going to sleep another ten hours. Because I'm tired." I make myself comfortable under the covers. "You can stay if you want, but don't try and meet my parents or something equally stupid." I hear him sigh, but I don't feel him leave.

…

He's gone when I wake up, but I can hear my parents downstairs, so I guess that's a good thing. I kind of miss his warm presence already.

God, Craig…

I've always kind of loved Craig. Before my brain started really screwing up**… **_**protecting**_** you…** and it was just some paranoia, when people started veering away from me-including my parents- he stayed. He didn't laugh or flinch away or get that look he gets in his eyes that show he really doesn't like you (I had nightmares about getting that look.) He acted like it was as normal as changing your clothes.

Something that he had helped me through before**…Pathetic… **Very.

He's like a breath of fresh air**…cliché, much?...** He's a downer in a world of uppers, and trust me, I have a lot of downers. He's always been able to calm me down, and I mean always. Back at South Park he'd always known what to do and what to say to make me not jump off the bridge. Even after moving to Lola I've always hoped and prayed that he'd come for me, and all I had to do was wait for him.

Know he's here again and I'm so fucking happy about it, but I have no idea what to do. I mean, so far so good, but I don't know how to make him stay. There's nothing to make him stay, other than me, and I'm just… me. His situation is practically the definition of Floater.

I really don't want him to leave me.

…

AN 2.0: What the hell is up, two chapters in one day! Two chapters not made of suck, if I do say so myself. Double the chapters, double the reviews, correct? Also, this story is going on a mini hiatus, enphasis on mini. I'm gonna go write a one-shot, it shouldn't take too long, though.


	13. Chapter 13

AN: Feel ripped off about not getting an update for so long? Well, go read my side project and hopefully that'll make you a little less mad at me. I don't own, yada yada, POV de Craig…

…

"Tweekie, this in Mommy…" I stare at previously mentioned "Tweekie," eyebrows up, while he repeatedly hits his head on the counter. "Tweekie, I just called to tell you that I can't pick you up today. I'm so sorry dear, you'll have to walk. Oh well, have fun at work!" A beep signals the end of the call.

"Don't even start, Craig, I swear-" and then I'm laughing. "God damn it! It's not that funny! It not like your mom is any better!"

"Whatever you say, _Tweekie_," I manage to get out through my laughter.

"Don't fucking call me that, I'm not even kidding. I hate it when people call me that."

"Golly, who would ever call you Tweekie? How cruel! We better run and go tell _Mommy_," and then my laughter doubles. He yells in anger and storms out of the room. I stay in the back room recovering. I try to remember why we were back here to begin with before you were so entertainingly interrupted. Restocking? Searching for Richard's "secret" booze stash?... cash register. We need some extra change to put in there. "Yo, Tweek, what's the combination to the safe?" I yell out to him.

"What's to you, planning on draining us dry? You…" and then we lost him. I wait for his brain to reconnect, but instead I hear a crash.

Come to find out that Tweek's little leg decided that it didn't want to support the rest of him anymore. I do not rush over to him at all because I'm not worried at all and see that his head is off somewhere else. I attempt to pull him up, but working with particularly unhelpful body isn't easy. He wakes up about halfway through me trying to get him up. He starts throwing slaps for me to let him go, chanting about being able to stand for himself damn it, let go. So I did. And he falls again.

"Ow, damn it!"

"Are you okay?"

"Oh, yes, I just fell on my ass for the second time because it's _fun! _My freaking ankle hurts." I pick him up off the ground and set him on the counter. After much bitching on his part and much dodging of kicks on my part I come to the conclusion that he's fine.

"But it hurts," he whines. _I know, I'm sorry, I'll try to help, but there's nothing I can do. I'm sorry._

"Oh, shut up, you're fine." He flips me off. I return the favor. He spends the rest of the day sitting in the corner miserably moping. He's not a huge fan of pain.

"How are you going to get home?" I ask near closing time.

"Damn it, Craig, why do you have to go and be all foresighttastic?"

…

"What the hell are you doing! You can't, you can't just- GAH, how the fuck did you get anyone to sign off on you getting your license?" yells the curled up ball to my right. Tweek is not a fan of my driving. What can I say, I've a very defensive driver. On the other hand-

"People who cannot drive cannot complain about the people driving," I inform him. He'll probably never be able to drive either. He gets too easily distracted.

"Hell yes we can!"

"Nope. Shut up and take it, sweetheart. You already took over the radio, another right only the driver is supposed to have." I receive a strong glare from behind the seat belt. It's kind of adorable.

I will hunt you down, properly prepare, and then consume your face if you tell anyone about that.

"I hate you," he says lightly.

"Well, you can just walk home if you like." We both know that won't happen. He was really not thrilled to be riding my Mustang ("deathtrap,") but it's better than limping the whole way back. He snorts at me. "You are a horrible klutz, Tweek."

"Shut up, Craig, it's not my fault!" I eye him for a minute, him staring back wide-eyed before he starts making wild hand movements (outside of the ones he already does) that I interpret as, "Keep your eyes of the fucking road!"

"Whose fault is it, then?" He just shoots me a look and stares out the front window. He mutters something, but I'm not sure if it was at me or himself.

Sometimes I wonder about that. The talking to one's self thing, I mean. It's not exactly hard to come to the conclusion that Tweek isn't quite right in the head, but I wonder about the extent of the… paranoia, I guess. There was nothing that could really freak him out that time in my living room, and random corners don't really call for speculation, and how he fell, and… I could go on. I would just come out and ask, "Hey, are you by any chance certifiably insane?" but that would be tactless. I may be a soulless bastard, but I am not one for awkwardness that can be caused by too honest statements or too nosy questions.

Also I just really don't want to upset Tweek, and I can imagine someone getting pissed if someone asks them if you're _literally_ insane. Or on crack. I'd rather that Tweek not want to punch me.

"Craigidie, Craigie-Craig. Paging Major Painintheass. Landing from La La Land in three, two, one…" I flip him off. He snickers. His laugh is weird. It's always a little too loud and half the time it's silent, proven to be laughter by the strange, high-pitched squeak that comes whenever he forces in a breath. He hates it and I mock him for it. Ruthlessly. Now all I have to do is smirk at him and he's irked. It's cute. "Turn left."

We end up in Picket-Fenceville. All perfect and such, neighborhood of many a lawyer/businessman and housewife.

His house is horrible. It's white and perfectly trimmed and has just the right _flow_ and so fucking boring. It looks like the kind of house that is created to mock the existence of such houses. But it's real. And Tweek lives there.

I am honestly a little surprised that Tweek hasn't pulled out all of his hair by now.

"See you tomorrow," Tweek says, but he doesn't make a move to leave.

"You can come over to-"

"Yeah, I know, I can't. _Bye,_ Craig," he says, finally making the move into his house. I sigh and drive away, a strangely rejected feeling stuck in my chest.

…

There was a knocking at my door. I fully planned on ignoring it because it's probably just one of my apparently infinite amount of neighbors (seriously, they just keep coming and I hate them all.) But after a few bangs I hear an angry, "Jesus Christ, Craig, open the goddamn door!"

I open the door and say, "You shouldn't yell stuff like that, there's a Jesus Freak living a few doors down."

"Fuck 'em," he tells me as he storms by. Something tells me he's a little peeved.

"I've thought about it. She's kinda hot." No response, just the monopolizing of my living room, angrily kicking things as he goes and muttering to himself. "Okay, not in a joking mood. Que pasa?

"I took French, damn it!" he informs me as I manage to avoid the Path of Terror and lounge on the couch.

"Why?"

"I don't freaking know! All the bad guys in movies speak French…" he trails off.

"There's more Russian and such than French."

"Yeah, well, my school didn't offer Russian." He walks by me and I pull him down on me. He wriggles around for a minute before settling down, head on my chest. He groans.

"What's wrong?" I try again.

"My parents are insane," I hear him say. I snort.

"No shit. What brings you to this sudden epiphany?"

"Don't be an ass, I've always known that they're a little…"

"Completely, eccentrically protective to the point where it'd put _you_ to shame?"

"Ha ha," he says drily. "I wouldn't go that far. But they're just so… gah! They're treating me like I'm five. I mean, I know that I'm not exactly, um, stable or whatever but I can take care of myself. 'Who were you riding with?', 'Don't talk to strangers,' 'You don't understand,' they say. Seriously? Jesus fucking _Christ_." I could feel that he'd keep going, so-

I don't know what made me do it. He was just sitting there on top of me (_straddling_ me,) and all I could think was that he's really kind of adorable when he's angry and that I kind of want him to shut up…

So I kiss him.

It wasn't a hard kiss, or a passionate one, or a magical one, barely a kiss at all, but it was enough.

He pulls back after a minute. "Oh. Hm…" he says softly. I watch him think, laying there on top of me playing with his hair. I hope that he's not going to run. That'd be awkward.

Instead he sits up, looks me in the eyes for a second, and presses his lips against mine again.

This one is considerably better. His lips are so soft…

…

AN 2.0: So… te gusta? Reviews make me happppy. They also contribute to better chapters XD


	14. Chapter 14

AN: First off- woo, I have over 50 reviews! That makes me soooo happy. I believe the actual 50th review was done by MiniFlameAmigoDazzlingDoodlez (which is a very long and fantabulous name) who gets a lot of brownie points.

I've been head-desking a lot lately, so if you read something that looks like it got written by someone with a concussion, it's probably because it was. This story is evil, you know? Takes on a life of its own. It made Tweek a schizophrenic, demanded to be written before my other story, doing… the Thing that I really don't want to write but it's MAKING me, so That's gonna get written. Probably gonna write It wrong, too. *head desks again* It's all lizoftheinfinite's fault.

…

Chapter Fourteen: An Untitled

I am not a virgin. Not even a little bit. I've made out with more people that I can remember, let alone name, and pretty much the same goes with my belt notches. Most of them were not shutter worthy, and there were a few who completely blew my fucking mind. Kenny swears that he could see my _Just Got Laid_ look for a week.

That's beside the point. What I'm trying to say is that Tweek is better.

Not like skilled in this particular area better. His tongue is clumsy, his hands are hesitant, and he gets slap-happy whenever my hands start wandering a little too much (which isn't too often, I was happy to discover.)

I would rather spend _days_ just making out with Tweek than go back to that one night fucking them.

"You have to drive me back to my house."

"Eh?"

"I need to go back," Tweek says, his kissed-red lips forming a smirk. I groan and collapse back on him.

"Gah, you're fat!" he squeaks.

"No, I'm not." But anyone's fat compared to Tweek. I swear, he has to be a size two in woman's. Literally. I look over at the clock that I'd finally gotten around to fixing. "Dude, it's not even midnight yet."

"Yeah, I know, but-"

"Whatever, mommy's boy." He slaps my shoulder. I get up as he pulls his shirt down. Is that really necessary? "You know, Tweek, your pa-"

"Yeah, don't even start. Just… I know." Something in his tone makes it clear that I should just drop it, so I do. Doesn't mean I'm particularly happy about it.

Have I mentioned how much I hate his parents? Because I really, truly do. They're the bane of my existence. And they're cockblocks. Well, kind of. I doubt Tweek would have gone very far even if he didn't have to go back to their place, but I can see them causing problems in the future. Lord forbid they find out I'm tainting their poor, innocent son.

Plus, they cut down on my time with him.

I'm not expecting Tweek to do anything about it, either. Tweek loves his parents, something I honestly don't understand, and… well, he's Tweek. Like it or not, he needs people to depend on.

So, because I know Tweek, I let it go and drive him back without complaining, not groping him once…well, twice.

…(Tweek's POV)

You know, if I could take back just _one_ thing that my many shrinks have said would be good for me, it'd be my "need" for a pattern.

It's not the worst thing they've ever said. I don't like surprises, or changes, or anything of the sort. I like monotony, simplicity, and overall sameness.

Unfortunately, my parents, like they have with everything else that's supposed to help me, perverted it and now it just makes me miserable.

I mean, really, is there any need to be breaking down my door if I don't wake up right away (I am a teenaged male, we are notorious sleepers) or follow my specified to the very minute schedule?

But no, they treat me like a precious porcelain doll that needs to be taken care of just right or I'll start to crack and fall apart. It's a role I've hated yet gone along with since we've moved to Lola.

You can imagine their dismay when their doll started coming to life.

It's not like I started dying my hair black, getting facial piercing, listening to the "the Devil's music" (that bit was years ago,) and practicing Satanism… which are things that I think are all blown out of proportion anyway.

No, I just started hanging out with The Craig.

You know The Craig. The Craig is something that my parents have hated for as long as I've been alive. Not Craig personally (well, kinda Craig personally,) they thought they were free from the original Craig long ago. It's the idea of The Craig that scares them. Scares most parents, actually, but mine have always been extremists.

The Craig is that friend that is always getting in trouble, the "bad influence," the one they think is going to drag you into the pits of despair, the boyfriend/girlfriend that your father would want to shoot. Characteristics include cockiness, slight to nearly unbearable unpleasantness, giant _I don't give a flying shit_ attitudes, and the capability to get booze whenever they want.

Craigs vary, but they all lead to one factor- angry, protective parents.

I remember when they discovered my Craig. Ms. Warren, the hag, took approximately ten minutes to report back to my mother about my new coworker.

I knew something was up the second I walked through the door. My mom's usual lugduname smile was replaced with one that looks like she'd been sucking on cherries**…Do you mean lemons?... **No, my mother hates cherries with a passion that could overpower any bitterness of lemons.

"Tweek, dear, why don't you have a seat?"

"No, I'd rather not." **Good job, it's always easier to escape when you're already on your feet.** Amen.

Mom sighed. Of course she sighed. My poor, overworked, exasperated mother. "Tweek, it'd just make things easier-"

"I'm fairly sure how I position myself is going to make any difference." Except for the fact that making someone have to look up at you gives you a sense of power. Not that I really need to do that for such an effect, she's nearly taller than me already.

"Don't be difficult," she said, starting to look angry. It almost made her look human. I'm so used to the robot perfect composure it's a little strange to see her act like a human.

"I'm not being difficult. Just use your words and we'll get through this." Craig is a bad influences.

She shot me a glare before taking a breath, gaining control of herself again, and Sugar Mom is back. You know, sometimes I wish she'd get angry with me rather than just the same old, "Silly Tweek, look at him go and make another mistake. He's so feeble," look that I receive whenever I do something that's not perfectly normal.

Here's an idea that never got into my parents' head- I'm not a normal person and never will be. Maybe I should try to live as a schitzo instead of a sane person, because that's just impossible for me.

"Why didn't you tell me you have a new coworker?"

"I didn't think it was worth mentioning."

"Oh, sweetie, of course it is. You can tell me everything, remember?" You should tell me everything, remember? Because it's all totally my business.

I don't tell her anything. Speaking that nothing ever happens to me, she assumes it's one and the same.

A lot goes on in my head, but she doesn't care about that. "Bertha came by earlier. She told me that he's not very… child friendly." You're fucking me.

"I'm not a child."

"Of course you aren't, dear. But how old is he? He must be-"

"He's eighteen, just like me."

She blinks, looking for her next tactic. "That's not the point." That's not the point now that it has been proven invalid. "It's just that I'm not sure he's good to work with you."

"He's great. We get along fine."

She sighs, "Tweek_-" you infidel, you child, you baby, you don't understand anything_ is what she wants to say. "You're not normal. You can't just work is people who are 'fine.' Bertha told me what he said. I don't think it's productive to work with someone so crude. I think it'd be best if you worked with-"

"With who, Mary Poppins? Perfect people don't exist, and therefore neither do the people you find safe for me to be around. I'm sorry, Mom, I really am but there's nothing you can do about Craig. I'm not quitting and neither is he, and honestly it's really not up to you." And then I made a mad dash for my room, locking the door behind me. They broke the lock on my door when I was fourteen, but still. Symbolism or something.

Their quiet rage from that is nothing compared to the rage I receive for showing up fifteen minutes from midnight with puffy lips and getting out of Craig's death trap. Mainly because it was silent.

This time- not so much. I'm planted on the couch and the yelling commences.

To be honest, I have no idea what they're yelling. Well, I know _why_, I'm not stupid enough not to be able to figure out that they're not thrilled about my arrival. I don't understand why they keep yelling. I get that they're disappointed in me, what I did is wrong, how irresponsible of me, ect. But is it really necessary to yell about it for another hour? I think not.

I zone out and go back to Craig's apartment. Craig's solitary, personal little apartment that he welcomes me into. That apartment that doesn't judge me or shun me or act like I'm less than what I should be. That apartment with Craig… who I made out with for, like, five hours.

The grin that pops onto my face at that thought gets me another round of screaming, but I honestly doubt they can bring down my mood.

**I really don't like this whole Craig fiasco. **You know, they were being strangely quiet tonight. I was starting to hope. **Idiot.**

…

AN 2.0: How much do y'all hate Tweek's parents? Cuz they're twats.

Le sigh. I guess I should mention that I'm thinking about moving the rating. I mean, I already swear more than I'm probably supposed to, the Thing that I really don't look forward to writing isn't exactly the most kid friendly, and if I ever feel like writing in a lemon or a lime I want it in the right rating. Plus, I can get away with more if I'm ever in the mood. What do you guys think?


	15. Chapter 15

AN: I am a horrible person. I totally should have been working on this more, I'm sorry. In my defense, I have actually been kinda busy lately, but still. I have given some bonding time as a peace offering in hope that you shall not be as angry at me. I've moved the rating up for a reason. If you aren't up for M-like things but like the story, feel free to just skip this chapter.

…

I have no idea what Tweek's parents did to piss him off, but I like it. It's made Tweek find it necessary to be over at my house as much as possible. He's even stayed over a few nights, which was fun. It could've been a lot more fun, but I'm not complaining.

Although my closet it starting to deplete. Tweek finds that my shirts are a better choice to wear around than his own clothes, which is silly because it's not like they're much bigger than his own shirts. Again, not complaining. It's a strangely hot occurrence. "Yeah, you see these clothes he's wearing? Not his. You know what this means. Oh yes, Tweek's parents, his ass is _mine_." Even if it isn't exactly true, it's fun to put the image into people's minds. I shared this with Tweek- he laughed and hasn't worn one of his own shirts in the last week. And he wore a pair of my shorts back. He said that his parents' reactions were to die for.

Although the image is in my mind enough for the whole town. Tweek's face red, mouth wide and screaming, him bent over the counter, me ramming his little ass -

"Calm down, Craig," Tweek says, smirking from previously mentioned counter. He was sitting on it and drinking his coffee. I flip him off. "I'm sure you'd love to." I roll my eyes at him and stalk off into the living room in hope that being away from him would give me a chance to calm down, but no such luck. He follows.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Craig, what that the wrong response? Let me fix that." And then he starts moaning like a porn star. "Oh, _Craig_, I want you _so_ bad-"

"Tweek, I swear to God-" Sure, he doesn't stutter or anything _now_. Although I have my suspicions that wouldn't exactly be the biggest turn off on the planet.

" My loins are just on _fire_ with my burning desire for your big, meaty-"

"Tweek," I warn, walking towards him. He just walks backwards with that shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

"Oh, baby, please, just _fuck me-_" I pounce, and we (luckily, I honestly didn't look before tackling) land on the couch. He grunts as I pin his hands above his head. "Oh, yeah, you know I like it rough- ow, don't pinch me!"

"You just said you like it rough. I only assumed that you were a masochist," I say innocently.

He considers that for a second before smirking again. "Well, I just want you so bad I'll let it slip thi-_nnnnngh_." This was caused by a sudden and well-aimed hump.

"I don't really think you are the one who should be talking about wanting someone," I say lowly. He looks a bit dazed so I take the chance to kiss him hard and fast. I move on before he can really respond, trailing kisses and nips and licks down his neck. There's a particularly high pitched whine after I bite at his collarbone. I smirk against his shoulder and let my hands wander up his (my) shirt. I lean up and look down at him. He won't look at me, eyes focused on the back of the couch. I wonder if I lost him to La La Land, but a quick flicker of a look up at me proves otherwise. I pull his shirt up over his head, and he cooperates with that. He shivers at the exposure to the cold air, and I go about trying to fix that. Trailing kisses across his chest and biting lightly at his nipples.

My hands wander lower until they rest of the lovely ass he was so nicely offering to me later. They weren't groping, but he tenses. I'd be lying if I say that I wasn't expecting it. "Tweek." Silence. "Tweek, you don't want me to fuck you."

"You know, there should be a better way to say that. I mean, making love just sounds corny but fucking or screwing or whatever just sounds crude, and-"

"Tweek, shut up." He looks up at me, gnawing at his bottom lip.

"I- yeah."

"It wasn't a question." He averts his eyes again. "Tweek, I'm not going to break up with you just because you don't want to put out this soon." He's blushing and I can see him thinking, so I leave him to that and pull his shirt back down. I'm heading towards the bathroom to have some private time when Tweek calls out to wait. "What?"

"I… I th-think I should do s-s-something, at least," he stutters out.

"Tweek, you don't-"

"No," he interupts. "I want to. Come here." I walk over slowly, praying to God that he doesn't change his mind by the time I reach him. Once I'm close enough he reaches out and grabs my belt loops, pulling me closer. "Sit down." I do what I was told. There's this determined look on his face as he works with the button and zipper of my pants. If I thought I was hard before… damn. I swallow thickly.

"You really don't have to." _But please for all that is holy do. Please, please, please, please._

"I know." He pulls my dick out and starts jerking it slowly.

"Jesus," I hiss. He glances up at me for a second before taking a deep breath and moving steadily downward. So freaking close, but there's no way he'll follow through. No way am I that lucky.

As I watch his mouth go down on me all I can do is moan.

_So fucking hot._

…

Again, I'm not going to say it was the best blow job ever. I mean, I'm fairly sure mine is the only cock that's ever been in his mouth, so I wasn't expecting anything much. He did better than expected (which may have something to do that I forgot that blowjobs are pretty much always awesome.) But that's not the point.

It was a really goddamn nice due to the fact it was _Tweek._ Tweek's blonde head bobbing, Tweek's tongue, Tweek's icy blue eyes staring back up at me from under the fringe of his hair. Somewhere along the line I realized how _hot_ Tweek is. I mean, there was never a doubt in my mind that he is definitely cute, definitely beautiful, but now… _damn_. I don't think I'll ever be able to look at him again without wanting to fuck him on the nearest horizontal surface.

No, screw that. Nearest surface. I didn't mean to discriminate against walls.

"Craig." I look back at Tweek, whose still sitting between my legs. "Was it okay?" he asks around his thumb that is getting gnawed at relentlessly. I respond by pulling him up and kissing him softly, and then no-so-softly because pecking him is like eating just one jelly bean- it's not possible.

He tastes weird.

Holy goddamned hell-bound monkey balls, he swallowed.

_Hot._

Why didn't I notice that?

I press harder against him and he makes this high-pitched whine noise that I've grown to love so much over the past few weeks. My hand creeps down towards the front of his pants. Once my hand meet its' goal Tweek squeaks and pulls back from the kiss. "Craig!"

"What?" I ask, eyebrows up. He starts blushing. "Do you want me to stop?" he shakes his head.

"No."

"No meaning no or no meaning yes?" What? I can enjoy movies sometimes.

"Craig, don't be-"

"I'm not being anything. I'm just making sure I'm doing what you want. What do you want me to do?"

"God damn it, Craig," he hisses out. He starts grinding softly into my hand. I press upwards and he groans. "Please."

"Please what?"

"Damn it, Craig, I don't know, do _something_, Jesus! " he growls out. I slip my hand down his pants. "Ah, fuck," he breaths out. I pull his pants down to give me some extra wiggle room and start jerking him slowly. "I am not in the mood for teasing right now!" he practically yells at me. I bite him on the neck for good measure.

"Shush." But I speed up anyway and Jesus, is this guy a screamer. Well, not so much with the screaming (that has yet to come, but I _will _make it happen eventually) but definitely high. Actually, had it not been Tweek in this position making this noise I'd probably be annoyed, but instead I can feel myself stirring again.

This would be a very bad cycle. We need to be at work soon. I don't think we have time to go for another round. Think distracting thoughts, whatever you do not look at his red, twisted face or him whimpering out my name like I'm god. Shit.

Unpleasant, ugly, thoughts. Shopping. Shopping with family. Family. Groceries. Cartman's fat ass. Mom's fat ass. Mom's fat, freshly showered, and newly found nudist ass.

That may have been overkill, but it works. "_Craig_," he whines out as he comes. Hell, he's so fucking great.

We lay there for awhile, clothes messy and sticky, me vaguely hoping that we didn't mess up the couch.

"Tweek, we have to get to work." He grunts in response. I move us up into a sitting position and Tweek goes to clean up.

We were in the car when Tweek, after getting into his riding-in-my-car stance, said, "I'm sorry."

"What the hell for?"

"Not… putting out, I suppose." I roll my eyes at him.

"It's fine. Don't do shit you don't wanna do just for me. Really." He eyes me for a minute, but I pretend that I didn't see anything. "Hey, Tweek, how many guys have you blown before?"

"W-w-what? N-n-n-n-none. Why?" he says, blushing.

"Hm."

"'Hm' what?"

"Just 'hm.'"

"Craig, can you avoid being cryptic for just one day? Please? What's with the, 'hm,' and the spelunking into my past sex life?"

"Apparently nonexistent sex life, if I do say so myself. Never been with a virgin before," I muse.

"Craig!"

"It's nothing. I just thought that my blow job was fairly epic for a first try? Where the hell did you learn to do that, practice on a lot of bananas?"

"It was one banana and his name was Fred." I bark out a laugh. "No, I just… I read a lot."

"Dork." He sticks his tongue out at me. He has a lovely, talented tongue. _Focus, Craig, focus on not having car sex._

"Yeah, whatever. Ohmygosh, I read this one thing last month and- well, the fucker was talking to the fuckee like he was a dog. Literally. It was all like, 'Shh, it's okay, you're okay. Who's a good boy for riding my dick? You are, you are! Good boy!'" he says in a voice that sounds like he was, indeed, talking to a dog. It sounded humorously furry. I snort. "Well, that's a slight exaggeration. But still."

"I promise to not treat you like a puppy."

"Or a girl."

"Or a girl."

"Cuz I'm not. A girl, I mean."

"I've noticed."

…

AN 2.0: Soooooo… you like? This is the first time I've written something like this, ever. So reviews are necessary. Also, the evilness comes next chapter. Have I mentioned how much I don't look forward to it?


	16. Chapter 16

**AN: **Okay, let's just get to the nitty-gritty. No fluff. Ahem… rape warning, if that's not your thing ("You totally should put these warnings and stuff in your description or something. Before they're, like, fifteen chapters in," says the proofreader. "Fuck off," says the writer, who is refusing to admit that she might be a _teeny_ bit right. "That'd be spoilers," the writer continues. Proofreader states that I should indent this paragraph. Writer continues to ignore her.)

The tense is different in this chapter on purpose. It seemed more dramatic.

Just to be clear, it's now late September in Lola Land. Craig's been there for about 3-4 months and they've been _together_ together since the beginning of August.

It is not my fault that it took forever uploading, I swear!

Also, _Clue_ is the movie Craig was talking about last chapter. If you didn't already know this you should A) be ashamed and B) watch it immediately. This AN is now over.

**…POV de Craig**

Chapter 16: A Fucked-Up Happening

I saw him every day. He could come over and we'd not fuck, which is fine (mostly, my dick isn't thrilled about going so long without getting some.) There was plenty of times where he could say, "Hey, it's fine if we screw other people, right?" or "You know, actually, I just don't want to fuck you." But he didn't. I've had _relations_ before… by that I mean fuck buddies. That's exactly what they were, too, their pesky emotions be damned. They didn't change anything. I thought he would be different from them. I planned on him being different from them. I thought everything would be fine if I took a day off.

So I hope you can understand why I was so pissed when I first walked into Rit's that morning. If you don't, that's okay. I sure as hell don't.

We were arguing about something that morning. Honestly, I can't even remember what. Whatever it was, I had gone over to Rit's to inform him that I was right (which was safe because Richard is _never_ in) and I walk in to find sex. I could smell it in, I could see it, and Tweek was in the middle of it.

I used to wonder why people always got their panties twisted into knots about their girl/other/boyfriends cheating on them. If they love/like you then why should one random fuck change anything? You wouldn't get mad at them for fucking a blow-up doll/dildo, which that person practically equivilant to.

The sick feeling I had when I first walked in made me realize that, for once, I was the one with the idiotic view on the situation.

And I was angry, so fucking angry and nauseous and ashamed, that I didn't notice the blood or the look on his face until I was already screaming at him. But then I did, and I stopped cold.

His face was blank, like a doll's. I wasn't totally unfamiliar with the look. It was the one he got whenever he got too sucked into his brain, only this time it was different. It was more like he actively burrowed into his brain, like reality was suddenly something to avoid at all costs. You could see shock locked in his features and this look in his eyes… Jesus Christ, I don't think anyone could ever do anything bad enough to earn that look in their eyes. Especially not him. Not Tweek.

'What the fuck just happened?' I thought. I knew what happened, if the chilling in my bone marrow was any indicator. But why? Why would anyone do this to him? To anyone. Just...

_What the motherfucking hell._

….

I don't know how long we stayed there staring at each other. Well, I was staring at him, I don't know where he was.

I didn't know what to do. I wanted to make it not have happened, that's what I wanted to do. But it was too late for that. _Maybe if you weren't such a lazy ass you would have been here for him._ I can wallow in self-hatred later.

After much mental debating I end up calling 911. I mean, what the fuck else could I do? He needed to go to the hospital, anyway, right? He probably needed stitches or whatever, a STD test (ah, God) and… he just needs to be alright, and I sure as hell didn't know what to do or... I don't really know anything.

I felt like throwing up.

I pulled up his pants before they showed up. I didn't want anyone else near his ass that didn't need to be there. I felt bad touching him, though, the way he tensed up.

I went home.

I called his parents.

After a few hours the cops showed up at my door. They wanted a statement and a DNA sample. Apparently Tweek's mother was very vehement about me being responsible for tearing up her little boy. I complied. It was a little awkward trying to explain that it's not impossible that they'd find some of my swimmers. And no, I haven't fucked him and yes, what we did was completely consensual.

And then I moped. My boyfriend wasn't a virgin anymore. That was supposed to be my job. Instead some random shmuck came and stole that from us. He was probably hurting. He was _definitely_ hurting. I get, as much as I possibly can, that getting raped definitely isn't nothing. But how much was it? How long would it take for him to be okay again? Would he be okay again? He wasn't exactly on stable ground to begin with. My guts were tying themselves into knots and trying to force themselves out through my throat.

That's how it went for awhile, and then it hit me like a ton of bricks that I was being a total pussy and Tweek was the only one who had any right to complain. Tweek, who is alone in a hospital (which he loathes with a passion, how had I forgotten about that?) with a bunch of strangers poking and prodding at him with his crazy parents breathing down his neck who were probably blaming him for what happened. That was the thought that started the steady deterioration of me not being angry enough to strangle a puppy. A small, adorable, Yorkie puppy.

It took me fifteen minutes to get to a hospital that was an hour away. It was by some sort of miracle that I didn't get pulled over.

I cornered a short, burly nurse to find get directions.

Once I was at his presumable floor I asked the head nurse, "Hey." She looked up, eying me like she was just waiting for me to mess up her day. "Is Tweek here? Tweek Tweak? That's his real name, I swear." She snorts.

"I know that's his name, boy, and let me tell you, I am five minutes from strangling his mother." I am obviously not the only person who's not a fan of Mrs. Tweek.

"Please do. Um… can I see him? I… I need to see him. Please." She had looked at again, but this time less like I was just another pain in the ass.

"As much as I think it'd do that boy some good to not be around his parents, he's only allowed family visitors."

"Shit," I said, running a hand through my hair.

A screech of, "FUCK OFF! I DON'T FEEL LIKE TALKING ABOUT IT! CAN'T YOU PEOPLE GIVE ME SOME GODDAMN SPACE AND JUST _SHUT THE FUCK UP_!" echoes through the hall from a room only a few doors down. Because of the angle I couldn't see the bed, but I recognized that voice and the pathetically sobbing dirty-blonde female leaning against the wall.

It took all my will power and then some not to just storm into that room and steal him away. "Can I leave my number or something?"

The desperation must have gotten to her because she said, "I suppose I could leave a note on his chart," grabbing a chart and a pen. I try to read it (I'm a nosy bastard) but reading upside down is not one of my many skills. "What's your name?"

"Craig Tucker." Her eyes snap back up at me. I could see the guarded, angry look up at that. "It wasn't me. His parents hate me, but I swear to God I would never do something like that to him. I'd die first," praying that she'd believe me. She still looked a little hesitant, so I add, "You don't have to call me if he doesn't mention me."

After a moment she gives me a sharp nod and I give her my number. I leave slowly, wishing that I could walk into that room and see him.

…

**AN 2.0: HEADDESK**

A short, miserable chapter. I suck. _Majorly. _


	17. Chapter 17

**AN:** I fear I may have bitten off more than I can chew, much like some cupcakes I had last week. The cupcakes were quite nearly too big to fit into my mouth. But they were delicious, so the stretch was worth it. Hopefully this will work the same way. Anyhoo, last chapter was a bit o' organized (ahahahaha!) chaos, but this one should clear some stuff up. _Liar._ Okay, maybe it's a little confusing in places, but it starts to make sense in the end! I hope.

… …

**You fucking slut. I knew you'd go and do something like this. Why do I even bother with you? Went and spread your legs for the first person who asked, how fucking skanky. **

They sound like Craig today, which is weird. They normally don't sound like anyone. Maybe I just expect their and Craig's opinions to be fairly similar. I know they're not Craig, though, because I haven't seen Craig. Craig hasn't seen me. He doesn't know how**...fucking disgusting…** what happened.

**You are fucking disgusting, though. You shouldn't even be allowed out of your fucking house. You shouldn't be trusted to do anything. Maybe you should take all your meds and just fucking **_**die**_**. I thought I could protect you, I really did. Now it's too fucking late, you whore.**

I can still feel it, crawling underneath my skin like toxic blood. I hope it's a hallucination. I hope it goes away when I can take my meds again.

… …

What's it called when you murder your mother? Matricide? Yeah. Never again will I wonder what drives someone to wanting to throttle their mothers. Because mine… Jesus Christ.

"Sweetie, why won't you just tell me who did this to you?" she asks, making a grab for my hand again. I jerk said hand away from her and shift away, just to make sure there wasn't a single part of me that she could grab onto to _comfort_ me.

"I've already told you who did it."

"Tweekie-"

"Don't call me that," I said droopily. They have me on some meds for some reason. Honestly, I'm not even sure I want to know why.

**Trying to disinfect you. You're soiled, now, slut. They can try all they want, but I know. You'll never be clean again. You'll always be filth.**

My treacherous mind. Why doesn't my mother dearest insist on some heavy duty antipsychotics right now? She tries to force them down my throat the rest of the time, why doesn't she now that I want them?

"Tweek, I know there's no way Connar would do something like this!" This. She can't even say rape (not that I'm chanting it or anything, but if you're going to accuse me of lying about who raped me then you should be able to say it.) I don't think she's even realized what's happened to me, really. Maybe she doesn't think it's as serious. I've been fucking Craig, right? I'm a guy. I live off sex. I love having dicks shoved up my ass, I do it with everybody**…well, apparently it's true**… Fuck her. Fuck you both.

"Oh, but he has."

"No, he couldn't have. He's dating that nice girl Cynthia, remember? He's not… like you." He's not a perverted fag like you, is what she wants to say. Pause for dramatic effect. "And Craig."

She's hell-bent on blaming Craig. Because obviously it's The Craig's fault that this happened. Hell, he did it to me, in her mind.

Craig. I wonder if he knows yet, if he thinks I wanted to, if he's as grossed out by me as I am. If he cares. If he still wants me.

A hell of a lot of ifs.

**Well, he's never going to want to see your skinny, whored ass again, if that answers any of your questions.**

Desleene, bless her soul, stuck her bitter head in and snapped, "Visitor hours are over," at my mother. My dad has been conveniently absent for most of this ordeal. **Probably trying to deal with how rough you like it.**

I'm in a hospital. I should be getting better, right?

Mom sighs and stands up gracefully. Her hair is in skillful disarray and her makeup is just the right amount of smudged to look perfectly saddened, her complexion back to normal now that her timely fit of hysteria is over. A flash of anger explodes in me. How dare her be anywhere near me? What the fuck does she know about what happened? What has _ever_ been happening to me? She's never understood anything that's ever gone on me but she keeps trying to "fix" them and change them to fit into her perfectly "imperfect" bubble-life.

I feel sicker. I want Craig.

Mom tries to place a kiss on my forehead. I skillfully dodge it. She laughs. "Oh, you're so silly. Getting too old for your mother's affection?" She giggles again before leaving my room.

… _Are you fucking kidding me?_ She couldn't possibly have been serious.

"If you're looking for a hit man, I'm your woman," Desleene says from the door. I snort. "There was a boy looking for you here earlier." I feel my head snap up. "Craig Tucker." Really? "He left his number. Do you want me to get you it?" My head nods. A minutes later there's a dialed, ringing phone in my hand. My hands are shaking.

After a minute Craig's gruff voice says, "'ello?" I choke up. I try to force a few works out. Craig wouldn't hesitate to hang up on someone.

"C-Craig? It's m-me. Tweek." Silence. I can here is breath catch. "I'm at the hospital," I add, forgetting that obviously he already knew that.

"Jesus, Tweek, I know." There's something in his voice. Generally there are only five extra settings for his voice other than monotone: annoyed, pissed, more annoyed, sarcastic, and most annoyed.

It's one of my goals to make him sound happy. I've gotten to amused. Now it sounds like I'm forcing it in the opposite direction.

"Um… do you know why?" I ask quietly. A part of me wants him to say yes, so I don't have to tell him**… of how much of a whore you are…** about what happened. Another part is praying that he says no so that he never knows, just hide it from him for the rest of my life, hiding the bruises and cuts and… until it all heals. He'd never know.

Silence again. "Yeah," he whispers back. I can't explain how the quietness of the dicussion helps. Like this is just a dark secret we're whispering to each other at night that'll disappear by the morning. "I was the one that found you. Called the ambulance." Oh, Jesus. He saw me. He saw me fucked. My throat closes up and my eyes burn. "Are… shit, I know this is a stupid question, but are you okay?" And then, against my will, I start bawling**…like the little bitch you are… **when did you get so _mean_?

So there I am, crying my eyes out into the phone, praying that Craig doesn't hang up, sore beyond belief, in a hospital ( I hate hospitals because I always have to get a psych exam, which means I have to spend some time in a psych ward before I bullshit my way out,) hoping that Desleene doesn't come in and take the phone.

"Tweek, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please stop crying," I eventually here Craig chanting through the phone.

"It's not your fault," I force out. "You may have to fight my nurse over the right to murder my mother, though. I won't stop either one of you."

He barks out something that could be considered a laugh. "Shit, Tweek."

"To answer your question, no. I'm not fucking okay. Just… I, ah… can you come over tomorrow?"

"No shit I'll be there tomorrow." A burst of happiness bubbles up.

We sit there talking for a long time, about a lot of shit. Anything to distract me. I fell asleep listening to his voice.

… …

Craig does show up the next morning. He looks like he didn't sleep well last night. I'd be willing to bet anything that I look ten times worse, even with the sleep I did get. He stares at me. I stare at him. I turn on the TV. He sits down. We don't say anything that day.

… …

The day after that he tries to hold my hand. I literally have a panic attack. Craig stands in the corner while some nurse gives me a sedative. Even once my head stops attempting to float out my ears he's still standing there, hands fisted under his arm and head down.

"I'm a haphephobic," I announce. He nods. I see a flash of his pale, taunt face for a second. "It's not your fault." He nods again. "It's not just you." Another nod. His complete silence is unnerving. "I'm sorry."

_**Why would he want you?**_

"It's not your fault, either," he says quietly. He stays in the corner. Once my mom shows up he leaves. I ignore her.

… …

On the third day he shows up really late. I try to convince myself it's because he has work. My brain refuses to latch onto that particular tidbit of logic. When he does show up his eyes contain one of the few emotions I can read- anger.

"Who the fuck was it?"

"What?" I ask.

"Don't fucking 'what?' me!" he yells. I see Desleene look up and start to walk over. I jerk my head, 'no,' at her. "Who the fuck hurt you? It wasn't some random fucker, was it?"

"N-no." Something similar to fear starts tightening my stomach. I'm not actually afraid of him, no, but _damn_ does he look like he could twist me into knots. Twist anyone into knots. After a second panic chases out the feeling, though.

"Who. Was. _It?_"

"Connar Grantson. Um… remember that guy from back when you first starting working at Rit's?" And then he's gone.

… …

He doesn't show up on the fourth day.

… …

On the fifth day he's here early. I imagine he had to sneak past a few nurses to get in. He looks tired, but otherwise… Craig-like. Maybe a little… sadder? I don't know, he always looks kind of sad. "I'm sorry, Tweek." It sounds like he was talking about more than just not being here yesterday.

"You don't-"

"Shut up." He pulls the chair closer and rests his head and arms on the bed. I can feel the heat radiating off him. I'm happy he didn't try to touch me. We fall asleep like that.

I wake up to him watching TV on mute. "You can turn the sound on," I say groggily. He nods. He's still leaning on the bed. It seems like an awkward angle, but I'm not going to complain. There's still a tension that forces itself out whenever skin contact is made, but the heat of him is still nice.

He doesn't leave when my mother shows up. She freezes when she sees the guy who she believes hurt her son right next to her property- I mean me. One in the same, right? They have a fairly epic stare-off, though. She backs out of the room slowly, like she's expecting Craig to knife her the second she turns her back to him. It'd be comical if it wasn't so sad. He turns slightly to look at me, a smirk on his lips. We share an eye roll.

God, he's so perfectly hot (what? A guy needs a distraction and Craig ain't exactly a bad one.)

**Oh, you fucking skank. Calm the fuck down.**

I can see Desleene and Mom arguing outside my window. It's a worthy distraction from daytime television. It's even funnier because Desleene could kill my mom with her pinkie.

Mom storms off angrily, obviously not getting the response she wanted. It's nice to know her petty ego is so much more important than I am.

"You don't need her," Craig says softly. I'm not even sure I was supposed to hear it. I reach out and run a hand through his hair. My psyche still tingles unpleasantly at the contact, but it's small enough that the pleasantness of just being closer to Craig outweighs it. He glances back, a semi-shocked look on his face. As shocked as Craig ever looks. He probably wouldn't look particularly surprised if George Washington came to life and started dancing to _Thriller_ in drag. I just shrug. He slouches lower in his chair, head tipped in my direction.

He's right, I know that much. When I get out of here I don't want to go back with her. But… well, I guess there's no harm in trying. Craig's not one to make a big deal out of things.

"Craig?" Grunt. "When they let me out of here… can I stay at your place? Like, move in?" He looks over at me. There's a something in his eyes, but I've never been good at reading people. His eyes could be sending total I Love You vibes right now (which is completely unlikely) and I could read it as I Hate Your Guts (which I hope is equally unlikely.) I move my hand back, just in case. "I get it if it's too soon or whatever. I can stay with my pare-"

"Hell no, you are not going to go live with them if you don't want to. You can live with me," he says.

I smile at him. It feels weird on my face.

… …

**AN 2.0:** Le sigh, Desleene. I love that name. I'm not even sure it's a real name, but I like it. Tweek's such a smartass, I wuv him (then why am I so mean to him? The world may never know.) Speaking of Tweek, I'm probably not gonna do a whole lot of his POV ('cuz it's _hard,_) so it'll be back to Craig next chapter. Go review or…or you'll have to live with Tweek's parents.


	18. Chapter 18

**AN:** I am so sorry for taking FOREVER to upload. Writer's block is a bitch. But now I have missed the school bus, and I honestly have no excuse not to get an upload up by tonight.

…**A Screwage of Naming Chapters …**

We're not sure what to say. We're only sure of what to do- which is nothing. So we stare , eye to eye, trying to get across everything we can't say.

_I'm staying with you._

…

Tweek's mother hasn't shown up for three days. Last time she was here, though, she told Desleene to call her when Tweek gets out. She'll take him from there. "To a few shrinks, a few happy pills, a few downers," Tweek had muttered when Desleene informed us. It made me think of the days when Tweek had acted dopier than normal. I had asked him if he was high. A dry laugh was my response. The thought that Tweek, magnificently and insanely spazztastic Tweek, had ever been doped down to take that away made me want to punch out the nearest person responsible. Instead I just stare at Tweek.

Desleene had conveniently forgotten to call her, so getting Tweek into my place wasn't exactly the challenge. On the other hand- "We need to pick up some stuff from my room," Tweek said softly. He hasn't said anything strongly since that screaming he'd done when I'd first tried to come see him.

"Why? Most of your clothes are still in my place." Due to his kleptomania involving my clothes and not taking his back with him.

He scoffs at me. "I have other stuff. My CDs, my iPod, my keyboard, my music, my…" he trails off. He looks distracted for a moment, and then just looks out the window.

I really want to reach out for him. Instead I keep both hands on the wheel, gripping so hard that my knuckles start cracking. I see Tweek's head look my way out of the corner of my eye. "I'm sorry," he says this new voice of his.

"It's not your fault, don't be," I respond automatically. He's been saying that a lot, every time he sees me trying not to touch him, trying not to punch something, trying not to do anything that could possibly hurt him. I wish he'd stop saying it. I'm tempted to just stop even hinting that I'm a human being, but that'd be like shutting him out. If he's seeing anything in me, which is odd all by itself, then hell if I'm gonna try and keep him out.

If he likes what he sees I'm not going to take it away from him, nor am I going to hide what would send him running.

Even if that thought makes me want to drive off a cliff.

And then a sob brings my mind back to car. I glance over at Tweek, whose face is crunched up in an effort to not start crying, face red and scrunched up, hands fisted in his hair, legs tucked up underneath him. I can't even stop my hand before it reaches out to try and sooth him, but the flinch to get away from me gives me enough power to pull back and forces enough bile up my throat I nearly have to pull over.

"I'm so sorry," he forces out between sobs.

"I'm gonna drive around for awhile before we go get your shit," is my response.

…

All signs of Tweek's little breakdown are gone (other than his cheeks being a little flushed) by the time we pull into his parents' driveway. I'm not convinced that they'd notice either way. He still has a key. We didn't stop to say hello to his parents as we head up to his room. I realize this is the first time I've ever been inside his house, let alone his bedroom. I almost wish we could screw on his bed, just to fuck with his parents.

It takes a minute of Tweek's staring at me to realize I said that out loud. I honestly thought that only happened in books. "Sorry," I mutter, suddenly finding my shoes very interesting.

I hear a sighed, "Whatever," before the door's opened and we step inside.

Most people assume that because Tweek's a little odd that his room would be a neat, organized to the point where you feel the need to just tip something over, bland cell of a room. In reality, it's honestly one of the craziest rooms I've ever been in. His bed's a mess, his clothes are thrown across the room or in the mountain of Saint Needstobewashed, papers everywhere that are either pinned to the walls or in piles on any horizontal surface available. You can see the separate areas that got attacked with a sharpie when he was bored. If I didn't know Tweek, I'd swear that it's an unorganized chaos zone that probably has a few toxic waste zones hiding in it. But, because I do know Tweek, I'm fairly confident that there's some secret code organization in it.

His closet is surprisingly barren other than his keyboard ("I suspected my parents might try to throw it away while I was at your place,") some boxes and a few bags. "I'm not sure this is enough to move all this," I say.

"Well, I don't need _all_ of it. Just my keyboard, some clothes, and… well, I'll have to go through some of these papers. I'm not sure what I need." I groan. It's a lot of freaking papers. "Shut up, it won't take me that long. We'll probably have to make two trips anyway because your _deathtrap _doesn't have any extra space," he replies, shooting me the look of death at mentioning my car. I shrug.

After a few minutes of trying to help pack up, most of which ended with me toppling over a few towers of papers (seriously, what the hell is up with those things?), Tweek pushed me down on the bed and told me to stop messing shit up. I listened. He magicked up a laptop that I honestly had no idea he had to entertain me. I watch his porn. He has some fairly interesting taste.

And I am thoroughly entertained, imagining it's Tweek whose tied up…imagining him imagining himself getting tied up by me… and then the laptop is closed on me and I'm getting glared at. "Don't," he says. I just scowl at him. He dumps a pile of papers in my lap. "Go through these. Put the ones with red exes in one pile." I follow the command.

We manage to get the keyboard and one of the boxes out to my car before Tweek's parents even realize that we're here. "What are you doing?" Tweek's mother screeches at us on our way back up the stairs. We freeze, slowly turning towards the screaming banshee.

It's silent for a moment, Tweek and me just standing here, Tweek's parents staring at up from the kitchen, their faces slowly turning red with anger if the scowls on their faces was any indicator. No one said anything, them waiting for an answer and us waiting for more yelling and possible dodging of flying cookie jars. Eventually I say, "Tweek's moving in with me." Lying would be a delay of the inevitable. Besides, I've never been a huge fan of lying. It's not that I can't or won't, but I hate that even have to bother to lie.

Of course, there was much yelling. And I zone out. Whatever they were screaming about was probably bullshit anyway. After they distract themselves enough, Tweek disappears upstairs. They keep screaming anyway, probably having already forgotten exactly why and at who they were yelling at. I'm in front of them, though, so now they're yelling about me preying on their son.

…I would like to remind you that Tweek and I are the same age.

After about ten minutes Tweek comes barreling back down the stairs. He grabs my sleeve and drags me out the door, not that fought him.

Once we were in the car, he says, "I locked the boxes we didn't get in my closet. I figured we could go sometime when my mom isn't home and grab the rest." I nod. I risk a glance at him. He looks nervous. Preoccupied. I guess I can understand why. He's moving out of his… home of the last seven years. Away from his parents. Even if they are incredibly horrible people, he could still have some graduation goggles going on.

He's still holding my sleeve.

…

Tweek and I got in a fight later that night. On where he was sleeping, of all things. I don't know what the hell people who think it's cute when their girl/other/boyfriends get angry or annoyed at them are on, but it's obviously it melts their brains out of their ears. There isn't anything funny about an angry boyfriend.

There was no way we could both sleep in the bed anymore, it just wasn't possible for him. I figured he could take the bed and I'd just sleep on the couch. But, no… He didn't want to impose anymore than he already was or whatever. I called bullshit.

Of course he still won. Which is how I ended up on the bed. Tomorrow I'd talk him into taking the bed. Or at least take rotations.

I fell asleep.

…

God, Tweek's ass is fantastic. I'd never seen it up this close before, Tweek had been fairly insistent about keeping our clothes on, but I've spent plenty of time staring at it before.

Let me tell you that it is a wonderful, _wonderful_ ass. It's _my_ ass.

And hell if he isn't the loudest screamer I've ever met. He's so tight and warm and… _damn_. I could live here, balls deep in Tweek, for the rest of my life listening to him whine and scream and beg.

I want to swallow him, consume him, get him as close as possible.

And then there's a split. Suddenly he's crying, pulling away instead of pushing back, telling me to stop… I look up at the mirror in front of us, and instead of me there's fucking _Connar _behind Tweek, taking him. I jerk back so fast I fall off the bed. When I_- Connar_- stand up again Tweek's crying, curled up, trying to get away from me. Then we separate and the fucker moves towards him. I try to move, to fucking kill him, but I can't move. No, wait, I can. And my body is moving away, away from the howling Tweek-

…

"Jesus Christ!" I shout, convulsing awake. My whole body feels like a massive Charlie horse.

.

No, fuck that shit, it was a nightmare.

It's peculiar, because I swear I haven't had a dream in roughly seven years. Suddenly having one, a nightmare, no less, it's just…

What's the fucking fuss? If I never have a never dream I do not care if it keeps images like _that _out of my head.

"Jesus Christ," I whisper again. I can't even convince myself to close my eyes again. I roll over and look at my clock. It declares 4:52. Good enough. Maybe I'll go downstairs and watch Tweek until I have to get ready for work.

A little creepy? Maybe. I've been doing it since the first night I'd spent at the hospital. It's habit-forming.

I pull on some clothes and go downstairs. Somehow, I'm not quite surprised that Tweek's awake and watching TV (I'd finally gotten around to moving my movies downstairs.)

He looks over at me. "What's up?" I'll go ahead and assume that he heard my shout.

"Nothing. Just ran into a corner." A rather pointy corner that I know Tweek has ran into at least twice before. He just hums for second, staring at me with squinty eyes. Then he snorts.

"You're lying," he says, turning back to the TV. I faux glare. "You can't lie to me," he says in a sing-song voice.

I snort and sit down next to him as close as I can be. "No, seriously, what's up?"

I shake my head. "Don't deny me, Craig." I can't. I tell him I had a dream. "Sounded like a good one, from where I'm sitting." It really wasn't. "Really? Did poor Craigie have a nightmare? Tell me about it." No. "Why?" Don't wanna. "_Why?_" Because. "Fine, whatever."

After a minute I say, "I'm sorry. About earlier."

"What, the bed thing? Don't worry about it. I was acting a little dramatic, anyway. New situations and all that. My brain starts to go haywire. And it's not just moving in with you, no," he adds, probably seeing my expression. "Just… anything new. It takes a little adjusting."

"Well, thank you, but that wasn't what I was talking about. Earlier, in your room…" I trail off, not really wanting to finish the sentence. Since when did I become so damn shy about saying things? Damn it.

Tweek looks over at me. "What, with the porn?" And now he's being blunt. The world it going backwards.

"I- yeah."

"Again, don't worry about it. It's fairly natural for teenage boys to seek out porn as soon as there's a computer in front of them and a closed door."

"That's not the point." Just fucking say it. "I… I was thinking that it was you. In that gay one- you have a surprising amount of straight porn, by the way," he shrugs, "With the blonde tiny dude that was all tied up and… I was imagining it was you and, I just… I can't…" I can't want to fuck you until you snap, until you break. Because you have been broken before through the same way I practically want to. It's just… _wrong._

I break eye contact. There's a strange buzz of embarrassment and shame buzzing through me. Now, I have _never_ been one to be ashamed of myself. Never. And here I am sitting awkwardly next to my _boyfriend_ (another thing that's never happened to me before,) whose been fucked up and I want to make him better (_another_ first) and… when the fuck did I change so much? Just for one person.

No, not just. Tweek fucking Tweak, who hasn't stopped staring at me.

"Craig, look at me." I ignore him in favor of studying my hands. I have very ugly hands. I don't understand _why_, it's not like I do much other than jerk off with them. "Craig Thomson Tucker, look at me right the fuck now." I sigh and do as I'm told. I'm waiting for him to tell me that I'm a sick pig and what the hell was he thinking moving in with me when he says, "It's fine." Say what? "I… I like that you still want me. Even if… I can't, not yet, but I do want you, too. Even though I can't, I do want to. Eventually. And I want you around when I am ready. I want you to still want me. If you daydreaming about me being a little cumslut, " I gag, "keeps you interested in me, so be it. It's not you want to… do what Connar did to me. I'm going to get better, eventually. I don't want you to try and turn my life back to PG. Just…" he sighs and runs a hand through my hair. "I'm not sure I'm saying it quite right, but you wanting me even if it's something I can't do is still good. I like it. I'd be more worried if you didn't. It's not like you want to hurt me, right?"

My hands clench in my lap. "I... kinda do."

There's a silent moment. It goes on long enough for me to completely regret being honest and consider escaping via window. "Not the way he did," he says finally. "There's no way you could. You wouldn't tell me if you did. Even if you are a bastard, you aren't the kind of sick he is. You... it's fine, really." The way he trusts me isn't natural. I'm grateful for it.

…

This staring thing is getting a little bizarre. Staring soulfully into someone's eyes for about three hours on end is bizarre, romance be damned. We were sitting on opposite sides of the couch, heads propped up on the arms. "I have to start getting ready for work," I announce, not moving quite yet. His head jerks a nod. After a minute I move to go shower. Tweek's voice stops me.

"How… how can you go back? To where I got…" It That Must Not be Named. I mean, it's enough that we acknowledge it happened and are trying to move on, it's not necessary to say it, too, right? "I mean… does it bother you?"

Hell yes, it bothers me. Somehow, despite the store only being the size of a double-wide trailer, I have managed not to so much as look at that counter for the last few weeks. Someone could tell me that there's a million dollars sitting there and I still probably wouldn't look. But, still, it shouldn't bother me that much, should it? "I… am definitely not a fan of it. But it's just a place. I mean, what happened was horrible, but it's not like the aura is still hanging in the air." Liar. "It's still a good job, and it pays well…" and that sounds like a horribly douchey thing to say. I wait for the angry snap that I deserve, but instead there's silence.

Instead he says, "Does it still bother you?"

"…Yeah."

…

A few weeks later it was my turn on the bed (I'd convinced Tweek that we should at least take shifts for the bed.) I was trying to fall asleep when I heard Tweek coming up the stairs. I figured he was just coming up to force me up for a midnight ice cream run, so I got up to put a shirt on. "Stop," a soft voice says. I do. "Lay back down." I do again. I say down my side, wondering what Tweek could possibly want. I see Tweek crawl into the bed and I feel a circuit fry in my brain. "I figured we could at least try. Stay on your side of the bed," he adds. I gulp.

"I give you permission to pinch me awake if you feel the need," I reply. I'm not unaware of my sprawling habit and other people's habit of getting caught under me. I see him nod.

This is hard. So hard. Having Tweek in my bed makes me want to pull him closer, tuck him under my chin, kiss him slowly like I could before It happened. But I know I can't, and that knowledge is painful. I consider for a millisecond to go sleep on the couch, but then I squash the idea nearly as fast.

I try in vain to go to sleep, but after a minute I hear Tweek breathing a little too harshly. I open my eyes. Tweek's eyes are already staring at mine when I open them, and they're shiny in a way that gives away what he was doing immediately. "Tweek?" I whisper.

"This is fucked up," Tweek's broken voice says quietly. Tweek has never had a normal voice. It cracks and bubbles and exclaims… it's amazing. I could spend a lifetime trying to decode each little quirk in his voice. But now it's been boiled down, plain, drowned. It sounds like mine, which is in no way acceptable. "I just want what happened to disappear, to not have happened. I know that's impossible, I know that much… so I did what I could. I didn't lie, I told everyone who asked what happened. I did everything I was supposed to do." He pauses, a few sobs escaping him before he can continue. "But instead of it going away, they just ignore it. My own fucking parents are telling the cops that I don't know what I'm talking about because I'm _unstable_, "he snarls out the last word. It sounded very non-Tweek-like. "And there's no way precious _Connar_ could do something like this. Whose fucking side are they on, anyway? Cops saying they can't prove anything, either, because h-he used a condom. Not that they'd really press much anyway, his uncle's the mayor. They probably think I was asking for it or wanted it," his voice cracks as a sob escapes. "And, fuck, there's nothing I can fucking _do!_ There's _nothing _else I can do to _possibly_ get even for what happened to me! It's not fucking fair!"

I saw him crying and all I want to do is hold him. Feel his closeness, his heat, him as close to me as he could be. I'm not unaware of the fact I'm kind of a complete asshole. Tweek deserves better. He deserves someone who can love him and understand his feelings, someone who's not as fucked up as I am. Someone who can be good for him. How can I possibly be any of that for him? I will never know what to say in moments like this, moments when emotions are supposed to be in play. Even if I am feeling shit now- and trust me, I am, there's no way to explain away how I feel like I bathing in acid every time I see Tweek hurt- I can't put it into words. I can't understand if others feel the same way. Even if I do somehow start understanding, there's still an underlying problem- I don't care. Other than Tweek, I don't care if others get showered on by acid, metaphorically or no. Is that enough? I can be here for him- I plan on being here for him- but I can't help but think that there are people who are so much better qualifies for my role in Tweek's life. I should have just stayed in South Park, suffering in silence, and then maybe Tweek would have been able to find someone better for him.

So I try to move a little closer, hoping he wouldn't be threatened by it. A second later I feel his hand in mine, and suddenly I'm inappropriately blissful.

…

Kenny was strangely vast knowledgeable on ways that someone could die. Not watching a marathon of _1,000 Ways to Die _knowledgeable, no, more like he has thought about dying way too much. Honestly, one of the reasons I was friends with him was because I figured it's never a bad idea to be on the good side of a future serial killer.

He knows a lot about cars, too. There's this wire in cars that are fairly vital in the effectiveness of the brakes. Generally, these wires last for the extent of a cars life. But sometimes these wires snap. It's a tragedy, really, but it happens.

So, technically speaking, I could crawl under Connar's car, cut this wire, and if he were to get into an _unfortunate_ car crash no one would think it's anything other than a car malfunction.

I could kill that motherfucker and no one would suspect a thing.

Ahem. Hypothetically speaking, of course.

…

**AN 2.0: **Guess who pulls information out of their ass? I do. You've been warned. Again, I am so sorry about not uploading for forever. Please review anyway.


	19. Chapter 19

AN: I hate computer viruses. They piss me off. Luckily, I now have a shitload of chocolate due to Easter, so I'll survive. This chapter's in Tweek's POV, because I love the little spazz. My proofreader was otherwise occupied, and I'm horribly impatient and rushed through editing, so if you see a mistake feel free to let me know.

**Chapter Nineteen**

…**The Discovery**_**…**_

I must be becoming some sort of masochist. Despite the highly uncomfortable pangs of panic that jolt inside my chest, I can't quite convince myself to tell Craig to move his head off of my thigh nor can I stop moving my fingers through his hair (or stop sleeping next to him, or holding his hand, or standing just a little too close.)

Craig looks fairly neutral on the situation. But, because it's Craig, that look is equivalent to him looking completely overjoyed. Craig never looks happy. Not to say Craig as a person is never, ever happy (although he's definitely not a happy person,) but his facial muscles are hardwired to never look anything positive, unless he's lying. I'd never believe it in a million years if he smiled at me, or told me anything that started with an, "I feel [good emotion.]" It's simply not how he's programmed. I have a feeling that even if Craig loved me in a odd, sociopathic way to the very core of his odd, sociopathic soul he wouldn't tell me. Wouldn't even hint at it.

I'm not saying he loves me now. It's not possible. You can't go from the steady zero that's been his constant for _at least _seven years to one hundred in a matter of months. Especially not with the shit that's going on- went on. It's only still going on in my head…**Can't let you forget. You may let it happen again… **Like I said. It's in my head.

That's okay with me. The complete emotion lockdown, I mean. It's Craig. He is a male, after all. It's just a little bit more… thorough in Craig's case. I guess he's kind of the picture of masculinity, isn't he? Lacks many a fuzzy feeling, strong, volatile, angry, possessive- a Neanderthal in the sense that he would throw me over his shoulder (something he had quite literally done on more than once occasion, before I got all anti-touchy-feely,)and keep me in his cave permanently if it was completely up to him (not that I'm completely against that plan, I'm a bit of a hermit.)

Craig likes me, which compared to how you much he usually cared for people, a glimpse into his mind might make it seem like it. But it's not. I hesitate to say he _CARES_**…because he doesn't…** but he definitely likes. Like is still a powerful thing. He's possessive of the things he likes. He's selfish (but what human being isn't?) He doesn't let people borrow his shit because it's_ his_ goddamn shit. Things he likes are to stay with him.**.. He's gonna hurt you, use you…**

If it wasn't for the whole gay thing he'd be the perfectly formulaic sight of a male. Although, in stereotypical top/bottom situation, he's definitely the top, and what's more masculine than getting another male to "sumbit" to you and fuck his brains out?

The thought makes me snort, causing Craig to glance up at me. I shake my head. He eyes me for a second, but then his gaze returns to the… documentary we're watching. How did he convince me to watch this? At least it's on Ancient Rome's sexuality instead of _geography_ or something. To sum it up- they were a bunch of WHORES. Orgies around every corner, cats and dogs fucking together, it was anarchy! Well, I'm not sure the animals were fucking each other, but the people sure were. Fucking the animals, I mean. I think. I read it on Cracked one time. Or is Cracked more like The Onion?

One of the characteristics of schizophrenia is disorganized thoughts.

The perfect picture of males is a hoax, though. The perfect picture male is usually an obnoxious, annoying, self-righteous, womanizing, douchey tool. People crave the weaker sides of others. No one really wants to be with the Craigs of the world, who have no weaknesses. Well, other than me, but I'm certifiably insane.

_I'm _his weak side, if anything.

You know, who made up all this weak side bullshit, anyway? Weakness and strength that are not are mostly matters of perception. Unless it's physically speaking.

You know what, screw it, I'm not thinking about it anymore. The human psyche is too goddamn confusing. No wonder mine split.

I go back to my original task, which was studying Craig's profile. And, no, he doesn't get any less handsome from the side. He has a slightly boyish face (unlike mine, which is just flat-out _pretty_,) but with enough edge to it that no one mistakes him for younger than he is. His eyes help with that- they make him look ancient. Eventually, my eyes traveled to my hand in his hair. Which is two different colors…**freaky…** no, he probably just dyes it. It's only his roots that are brown.

_…_**Dyes it? Who fucking dyes their hair? Jesus Christ, he's trying to hide his identity. He probably isn't even Craig, who's bad enough as it is. I told you, **_**I told you**_**, but nooo…**

Ah, there goes my mind, always hovering somewhere between annoying and terrifying. Like right now, they're screaming, ringing in my head, and against my will I feel myself tensing, feel the paranoia starting to creep in, the "What if they're right?"s.

I'm trying to silence them when Craig notices, and then he's moving up and away, asking, "Tweek?" He wants to know what's wrong. What am I supposed to say? "Yeah, Craig, my mind has decided that you're actually an impersonator, so… can you provide some identification?" Not happening.

**Well, he's bound to find out sometime. You are living with him, you can only hide as many pill bottles as you have for so long.**

I reject that notion.

**It's not a notion, it's a fact.**

I take a deep, shaky breath. "I'm fine. It's nothing." Even though Craig's face is blank, Craig's eyes have always been easy to read. Most people only see one thing in it- aggravation- and just assume that that's just his look. I've seen other things in their depth, though. And right now, his eyes are quite clearly say, "Bullshit, tell me the truth." I sigh.

"It's nothing, really. It's just… do you die your hair?"

He just stares at me. I stare back. Eventually he answers with a, "Yeah… and?"

I am insane and I kinda think you're a spy or something. "Can you… not? Dye it, I mean."

"Why?" I just stare at him, wide-eyed. I see some incomprehension twitching in his face, but I continue my staring, hoping he'll give up.

He doesn't. I cave first. I spend an extra minute trying to come up with a half-way decent lie. "Um… I think you'd look great with brown hair. It'd be a vicious cycle if you re-dyed your roots, and… it'd be healthier. For your hair, I mean." That was halfway believable.

Craig, though, was in the other half. I could see he didn't believe me. He went along with it anyway. "I guess so. I should probably get a haircut, though. Maybe a buzz cut…" he muses.

"No!" I yell. "We can bleach it a little and then dye it closer to your natural color. No cutting required." Because cutting would be bad.

"Why? It'd be easier to just cut it." I really don't want to say it.

"Ah… it'd look better?"

"Tweek."

"Craig."

"Are you trying to say my ears stick out?" Oh, dear Lord, do they. They stick out so bad I wonder if gravity is going to take them down when we're older the way it does chicks' tits.

"I love your ears." And it's the truth.

"That's not what I asked."

"Your ears are epic, and that is all I will say on the topic." He snorts and rolls his eyes, but sense some amusement there. We're quiet for a few minutes listening to the voiceover lady telling us of how one Ancient Roman lady managed to not get knocked up by someone who wasn't her husband by only sleeping around when she was already knocked up. Nice.

I inch myself closer to Craig.

"Craig?"

"Hm?"

"I'm gonna quit Rit's. I figure I can get another two paychecks out of him at most, but after that… I don't think I can go back there." I can see Craig grinding his teeth out of the corner of my eye. I hate talking to him about this shit. It's not fair to him. He always seems so… unhappy when I do. Sad, almost. There's just something _wrong_ with that.

"No shit you're not going to work there anymore," was his response. "Fuck, I'm not even sure why _I_ am."

I press myself closer to him and even as the panic shoots through my nerves I can feel Craig's heat start to seep in.

…

It gets really boring sitting home alone. I suppose I could clean, but I hate cleaning and Craig honestly isn't that messy. Plus I don't want to be that girlfriend that goes around and reorganizes your shit. I could go shopping, but I'd have to walk to the stores and it'd be Craig's money, which I refuse to steal without permission.

How long will it be until I could go back to work? I suppose I could work at Mrs' Greenburg's. She owned a store in town that sold a lot of cooking shit. And cupcakes, 'cuz you can't go wrong with cupcakes. I was kinda friends with the daughter of Mrs' Greenburgs in high school. Mrs. Greenburg is bizarrely a nice person, and speaking that this whole town gossips like a rabid high school, she probably already know what happened to me, and no way are they going to turn me away (plus, I heard that someone had quit not too long ago.) On the other hand, I really don't want to deal with other humans who act human-like. And Mrs. Greenburg is definitely very… sociable. But I know her. She's an old lady (well, not _old, _but on the far side of middle aged.) Maybe she has something in the backroom I could do. Something that doesn't involve dealing with people at all.

Ah, fuck it, what's the worst thing that could happen? I write a quick note to Craig and then I'm walking to Mrs. Greenburg's.

…

Four hours later I had finally gotten myself a job and extracted myself from the overly hospitable claws of Mrs. Greeburg. She was fairly understanding of the haphephobia, so I get to do stocking and help around the kitchen. I tried to tell her that I can't cook worth shit, but she refused to listen. So now I'm doing that.

Craig was already home by the time I returned. Something I came face to face with as soon as I unlocked and opened the door. I had barely gotten my shoes off when I heard an angry, "Where the fuck were you?" It startles me so bad I fall back on my ass. I look up to see him standing on the steps, hands clenched at his side.

"Uh, out?"

"No shit you were out. Where were you?"

"In town."

_"No fucking shit!" _And know he's yelling again.

"What the fuck is your problem?" I yell right back.

"My problem, Tweek, was that I had no fucking idea where you were or if you were okay or, shit, I don't fucking know."

"What, did you think I got kidnapped or something?" I almost laugh at the insanity.

"I don't fucking know! You haven't left the apartment for the last three fucking week and now all of a sudden you decide to up and leave! I didn't know where or why or-"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I wasn't aware I had to get your permission," I snap back at him. I felt like I've had this kind of conversation before, only with my parents. We all know how that ended.

"I'm not saying you need my permission, I'm just saying that I…" and then he choked up. He looks down at his feet and shakes his head, leaning against the wall. "I don't fucking know. I'm sorry, okay?"

And then quite suddenly my heart melting. _Craig_ was _worried_ about _me_. Craig. Worried. Me. How the hell am I supposed to stay mad at that? "I'm sorry," I say quietly. His head jerks.

There's a long silence after that. Eventually I say, "I left a note." Craig snorts.

"Yeah, I know." He points at the counter, where I see my note laying. I pick it up.

"That… is not in English." Generally, my handwriting is much neater than that. Although, I'm not quite sure it was just the writing.

"Yeah. Any idea what it _is_ in?"

"Um… shorthand, maybe?" Craig barks out a laugh.

God, Craig's laugh. That shit is rare. He barks and snorts and chuckles all the time, but his honest to God laugh- you don't hear that shit often. I mean, there's nothing particularly special about it. It's an average laugh. But it is _rare_ and with scarcity comes value.

I pull out of my ponderings to discover Craig a lot closer than he was previously, still staring at me, hands fisted, arms crossed across his chest. I recognize the stance. It was the one he held every day at the hospital, every night when we go to sleep, every time we're close enough that he could touch me but he knows he can't.

It's a rather unfortunate stance, and I really wish it wasn't necessary.

"I'm sorry for yelling and freakin' out n' shit."

"Sorry for making you freak out. I got a job," I say. He looks a little alarmed, so I add, "I'm not going to really working with anybody. Behind the scenes kind of thing. I can take you there tomorrow or something."

…

You know, you'd think that'd be enough shit for one day, but no, my life hates me.

I was sitting downstairs watching _The Blair Witch Project_ when I hear Craig call me from upstairs. In the bathroom. Should've just ran then, but nope. I went upstairs to see what was up.

"Huh?" I grunt at him when I turn the corner. Should have run when I saw his face, too. Because there was a weird ass look on his face. I have never seen such a massively obvious WTF face in my life.

"So, Tweek."

"Yeah?"

"What the fuck is lymphaticusizene?"

"Oh, shit." Lymphaticusizene would be one of my antipsychotics. The one he has in his hand, to be precise. He has another three in his other hand. And then another six on the counter. Not to mention the other nine that he hasn't found.

"Shit? So I can just flush it?"

"No! No, you can't flush it."

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't flush this."

"…It's very expensive."

"So's heroin."

"Well, I don't think that heroin itself is that expensive as much as the whole need to have it every other hour is. And heroin isn't… what that is. Prescribed."

"And why were all these prescribed to you?" He sounds eerily calm.

"'Cuz I need them," I say. I can feel my voice start to deflate. It's not cool that every time I get scared or something I lose my voice.

"And _why_ do you need them?"

"Because it makes me better." At least, a little better. And, me, evasive? Never.

"_Disease_, Tweek, what_ disease?_"

"It's not a disease," is my immediate response. Despite what every psychologist says, I don't see my schizophrenia as a disease. Diseases are caused by viruses or bacteria. Diseases get better. Diseases are easy and classified. Diseases can be explained. My brain is fucked up. There is no need to soften that blow.

"Tweek." His voice just sounds so tired. I can't blame him.

"I'm… kinda sorta a bit of a schizo." Only person I've ever told that to. And quite honestly, I never want to again. The way his shoulders just dropped, his breath left him in one big _woosh_, and he tightens right before he just falls. And it was my fault. I wasn't just the messenger, no, I am the cause. The reason for this sudden… _despair_.

"Jesus Christ, Tweek. And you didn't think that was an important piece of information?" I open my mouth to respond, but he just shakes his head at me. "Fuck it, no. I'm going out… I'll be back later," he says before pushing past me. I didn't move until I heard his death trap start and drive away.

"Fuck," I finally manage to force out.

…

I'm curled in the bed hogging all the covers when Craig came back five hours later. I didn't hear the death trap return or the front door open- wasn't listening for it- so when I saw him coming up the stairs he nearly gave me a heart attack. He did, however, scare me to the point my body decided to play possum.

He walks up over to his side and lays down facing me. He reaches out and says, "Share."I roll over a little to allow for the stealing back of the blankets.

We don't say anything for a few minutes. "What's it like?" he asks suddenly.

"Huh?"

"What's it like? Your, eh, schizophrenia. Do you, like, hear voices and shit?"

I frozen for a few seconds. "No one's asked me that before." I clear my throat. "I… kinda hear voices. It's just one, and it's not really a voice, per say. It's more like another thought process that's also happening in my brain."

"What's that like?"

"… _That's_ hard to explain. I guess… I dunno, wearing two headphones that aren't playing the same thing. Usually one of headphones is louder- mine- and sometimes the other one is loud enough to cut through and drag my focus over it that side. I mean, obviously it's not quite the same because it's thoughts, but you get the gist. They're always playing though. It's not always loud and dominant, but always playing. "

Craig looks unfazed, but Craig always looks unfazed. He swallowed thickly, breaking the illusion. "Has the… other thing ever _completely_ dragged your focus over there?"

"Not in a few years. Four of 'em, actually. That… was a mess, to say the least." I don't think it's necessary for him to know all the details of that period. It's not necessary for anyone to know what happened during that period. Protect me my ass.

**Well, it was a work in process. We have the system down better now. Honestly, we were just trying to help. And it was really necessary. Learn from experience, right?**

_My ass._

Craig looks like he just wants to roll over and call it a day, but he hesitates, and then whispers, "Are you… okay?" Completely insane?

"As far is schizophrenia goes, my case is minor. Extremely minor. Magically wonderfully minor. Not to say my mind is anywhere near perfect, but as far as things go, I'm good. Who's completely normal in the head anyway?" This earns a dry bark from Craig. "So I'm good." He still looks doubtful, so I add, "Look, Craig, if you didn't know _right_ away, let alone after _five months,_ then I am not that bad."

He sighs, and it sounds like one of relief. "I just… wanted to know you weren't going to claw out your neck because you thought there was some government chip in it or something."

Okay, maybe he had gotten a hold of my medical records. "Yeah, because everyone knows that the government puts their chips in people's arms." He laughs. Maybe he hasn't.

I sit up and turn on the lamp next to our bed. I roll my sleeve up to my shoulder. Craig sits up. Running my finger along the crooked scar there I say, "I did this back when I was really sick. My parents had made me get a flu shot and decided it wasn't necessary to tell me what it was. Of course my head started churning and I couldn't stop thinking that they'd dumped a bunch of nanochips in me, so the first thing I did as soon as I got home was to try and cut them out. A part of me was aware enough that I knew that that didn't make any sense on so many levels, but that part wasn't in charge for awhile back them." I feel my voice start to crack. I take in a deep, shuttering voice. "It scares me sometimes. Knowing I can do that, I mean." I trail off, finally looking down at Craig. I didn't like that look he had on his face. _At all_. "I shouldn't have told you," I said softly.

He shakes his head, but I can't tell what it meant. "I really want to hold you," he says, though.

I consider that for a second, and then I say, "Turn around." He does as I ask, and I turn off the lights.

We fall asleep with our backs pressed together in a strange backwards version of spooning.

**…...**

**AN 2.0:** Damn, this is a long chapter (for me, anyway.) Oh, and lymphaticusizene isn't real. Please review!


	20. Chapter 20

**AN: **I found extra time to write because I… accidentally… slept through my alarm, so no school Friday! (Friday, Friday, gotta get down on Friday...)

… **The Other Side's Suck**

I wake up in the middle of the night to find Tweek sitting up cross-legged staring at the dresser. He's just sitting there, elbows resting on his knees, staring with tired eyes. He doesn't look… well, anything. He kind of looks like how I imagine I look like when people (other than Tweek,) talk to me- tired, annoyed, and just waiting for it to stop.

"The underwear gnomes are stealing our underwear," he announces, just like how he'd tell me about the weather. "I told you about the gnomes before I moved, right? Those fuckers have been around for forever," he continues, still in that calm, unconcerned voice.

"Tweek…" I'm not sure what I was planning on saying, but it flees my mind.

"I forgot to tell you that I hallucinate sometimes, too. Not _a lot_, but sometimes. Don't bother getting up or anything. You won't see them, of course, and I know you'd be right, but it wouldn't help me look away. I wouldn't quite believe you, because they're right there even if they're only there for me. So just lay down, go back to sleep, and I'll do the same once they're gone."

I try to think of something to say, but what is there to say, so I just follow his advice. He lays back down ten minutes later. I hear his breath even out, obviously asleep, not too long after that. I roll over to face him. He's facing me, mouth open and face lax. Is it bad that I pretty much always fall asleep last just so I can see him like this, all relaxed and unstressed and not worrying about the billion things he could be worrying about?

No, I don't think that's the bad part. I think the bad part is me touching him when he's out cold. His face, his lips, his next, his hair, his shoulders, his chest, his back… anywhere I can reach without causing a major disturbance in the bed. I suppose the actual touches aren't as bad as they could be, but it's more than he'd let me do awake. Maybe that's why I do it, so that I know there's no way he can tell me no.

It's kind of sick. I'm aware of that. I can't stop, though.

_ That's probably what Connar felt._

Connar wanted to hurt Tweek. I don't. That's why I'm doing this way.

_Oh, yes, because obviously it's not rape if the person is asleep. Idiot._

I'm not _raping_ him. I'm not going to hurt Tweek. But it'd probably hurt him if he woke up in the middle of my petting fest. That is usually when I promise myself I'll never do this again. This is the last time. So I might as well draw it out. My resolve usually breaks when I crawl into bed the next night. Other times it happens earlier in the day, when he does something that really just makes me want to hold him, but I can't right them.

Tonight it breaks _really _early because Tweek, still asleep from what I can tell, turns his head and kisses my hand. First kiss I've gotten in months, outside of the goodbye peck Desleene have both of us when he was released.

…

"What's hallucinating like?"

"Why do you ask all these questions?"

"Why do you ask all these questions about me asking questions? I just want to know."

"Well, maybe it's just hard to explain."

"Try."

"Maybe it's just embarrassing."

"_Explaining_ is embarrassing?"

"No. Well, yes. But the fact that it happens… I don't like it."

"Well, I don't like the fact that I drool like nobody's business in my sleep, but we both know that happens. You hallucinate. I already know it happens. I'm not disgusted or whatever that it happens. I just want to understand it."

"You can't."

"_Let me try."_

"Fine. Whatever. The whole seeing them thing is just like seeing something that's real. They look kind of weird, but that's never anything I notice until afterwards. Admitting they're not real… it's harder. It's like a fact that you know, that you've always known, and then suddenly everyone is telling you you're wrong. Even if you're still feeling it, still seeing it, it isn't real so it's invalid. It's like being a Christian- or, you know, any other religious person- in a sea of atheists. Angry, in-your-face atheists, no less.

It's just so impossible to explain, to understand. It's like I live in a completely different world than everyone else sometimes."

… …

I bought Tweek a pair of headphones. Not earbuds, honest to God massive headphones that I can quite clearly see through his hair. I'm aware Tweek hates those things. "They're heavier than my head, they're itchy, they're bulky…" he says. But that's why I bought him a _seventy_ dollar pair , because if there is one thing he cannot refuse it'd be sound quality, and trust me, those things sound so good I'm sure he'll cream himself a little when he gets his claws on them.

Back before going outside quite nearly froze your ass off, Tweek used to go out into my deathtrap and listen to CDs, engine off, slowly killing my battery, just because he swears music just sounds better in cars. I used to join him. Sometimes we'd just drive around outside of town on the back roads (where Tweek finds it less likely that I'm going to blow us into another car,) because it sounds even better when you're actually driving.

In all honesty, I didn't do it out of the goodness of my heart. No, I did it for myself. Even if he likes them, and him liking them would definitely not subtract from him receiving them, I did it 'cuz I want him to wear them. I don't want to come downstairs and hear him saying (yes, saying, because the dude can't carry a tune for the life of him so he just _talks_ along with songs,) "Maybe you could break my heart next summer. Why bother? It's gonna hurt me. It's gonna kill when you desert me. This happened to me twice before…"

I'd kind of frozen when I heard him talking. I hadn't quite come downstairs, but if he was paying attention he could have seen me. And he could be talking to _me_ saying _that_. Or he could be talking to his coffee mug. Or he could talking to himself. _Or_ he could be talking to _me_. In which case it sounded very much like a breaking up speech.

Sneaking up on Tweek is generally a big no-no (unless you want a black eye- he will punch you,) but through a lapse of judgment I practically ran across the small gap. And grabbed the iPod out of his pocket - where it is ALWAYS located- and looked down to see it was playing. _Why Bother_ by Weezer.

And, according to him, I'd given him a heart attack so he definitely hadn't see me. "What the fuck were you doing?" he screeched. I shrugged.

"Wanted to see the song." He keeps staring, though, so I shrugged again and headed back to the kitchen.

"You're lying!"

So that was last week. And that wasn't exactly the first time I'd heard something like that before. For such a mellow guy, Tweek can listen to some… angry music. Not that I'm saying I don't, but when he does it it freaks me out. I don't even have a solid reason for it. Really, it's just hypocritical.

Maybe it has something to do with him telling me about his disease ("Not a disease.") I hadn't really been bothered by it before. But know it makes my skin crawl. I don't know why. Maybe I'm just trying to pinpoint a reason for all this shit that happens to him, and like a scared parent I'm trying to blame music.

Either way, I bought him the giant headphones. So we don't have to worry about _that_ misunderstanding again.

…

He did, indeed, cream himself when he first listened to those things. Well, he certainly sounded like he did. Despite the disgruntled look he have me once he saw them, he's been ranting for the last ten minutes about how amazing they are. I've honestly kind of zoned out to the actual words he's saying, but he sounds excited. Happy. Tweek wasn't much of a happy individual to begin with, and I can't really blame him for being so, knowing what I do about him and his life. There's probably even more that he hasn't/won't/ can't tell me about.

Beside the point. A happy Tweek is a wonderful thing and all that shit.

Tweek has very glow-y eyes. You can tell right away when he's planning on doing something just because of a glint in his eyes. What you can't tell is if his plan is for good or for evil. So you just have to wait and see what he's planning. Which is what I'm doing right now, watching Tweek smile with that glint, waiting for something to happen…

He rushes forward and hugs me.

I'm fairly sure all my nerve endings explode a bit at the action. And not in an unpleasant way.

For a second I just stand there in shock. Then I wonder what exactly am I supposed to do. Should I just stand here and receive? Hug back?

After a few more seconds of internally debated the pros and cons of each option, I gently put my arms around him, so achingly loose that a freaking coma patients could break free from my hold. Tweek just… _purrs_ or something and squeezes tighter.

I'm happy that I gave the headphones to him after work.

Eventually we break apart long enough for me to go lay down on the couch and grab the remote. I'm not down for more than a minute before Tweek's back on top of me, head tucked into my shoulder, arms curled on either side of me.

"I like this," Tweek sighs. I grunt in agreement. I let my hand rest on his back. I feel him tense a little bit, but it didn't seem too bad, so I ignore it. One sitcom episode later, my hand starts to move on its own, rubbing up and down on Tweek's back.

This time he tenses up so bad it seems painful. My hand freezes.

"C-c-can you m-move your hand? Please?" he stutters out. I comply. It felt good to be able to touch him when he was awake. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize." Still my automatic response. Although I do kind of feel like I deserve an apology. Just not from him, and I don't the person who should be apologizing could ever be sorry enough.

"D-do you want me to move?"

"Why the hell would I want that?" I would want that because this could be a form of torture.

…

You know what sucks more than having a boyfriend that you can't do so much as hold? Having a boyfriend who is very aware of how much it sucks and is so fucking unbelievably sorry about it that it's not even possible to be mad about it.

He doesn't even hate touch. He doesn't like someone _wanting_ to touch him. Running straight into him by accident on the street, no problem. Accidently grab him as he goes me you or touch him the wrong way, he semi-avoids you for an hour.

I've just noticed that Tweek has this look. I must have some sort of tell about when I want to touch him or something, because every time the thought goes through my head Tweek gets this horrible guilty look that resembles that of someone who accidentally ran over a puppy.

It makes me want to remind him it's the damn puppy's fault for running in front of his damn wheels and the car's inability to break fast enough, not his.

It's an ongoing inner debate whether it'd be worse to just keep making us both suffer with that look or to just stop making eye contact with him.

He's been hovering, too. Whenever we're in the same room he's never a whole step away, always pressed to my side. It sucks not being to reach out and touch him back. It sucks not being able to do_ things _with my boyfriend, and it sucks that I like him too much to try to do something because I'm scared of scaring or hurting him.

It's a very sucky situation. It sucks for me. I'm sure it sucks for him just as much, probably more, but it sucks for me, too.

And Tweek had to go and be all sympathetic! Why can't he just be blissfully unaware of any of my issues? He has enough shit to deal with without worrying about me.

"Craig?" Tweek's tentative voice calls out, dragging me out of my head. I had been "reading" in bed, him laying on his side listening to music. He always does that before going to sleep, and I refuse to sleep until his headphones are safely off of his head and… well, you already know the other reason.

Generally we don't talk after eleven. It's not that we get bitchy or anything for staying up too late, but we still like our alone time. Well, alone time minus the whole actually being alone part. I suppose it's the silence we like, like how it was back when we both worked at Rit's.

"Yeah?" I respond.

"Uh… never mind," he whispers. I hate it when he whispers. It always means he's saying something that he doesn't want the world to hear. He can't just be isolated, the actual words need to be quiet, too.

So I am not pushing what he wanted to say. I'm not his shrink.

I sit up and turn off the light next to the bed. My eyes take a few minutes to get used to the darkness, but once they do I can see that Tweek is still looking at me. He takes a deep breath and I know that the talk cannot be avoided due to anything less than being a douche.

He doesn't give me the proper amount of planning time.

"Craig, why are you here?" he asks. That's a surprisingly easy question.

"Um, I believe I've already told you the story."

"What? No, not here as in Lola. Here as in… with me." That's a unsurprisingly hard question. One that I'm honestly not quite sure how to answer. "I mean, your life must have been so much less complicated before me. It was simple. I know how you like simple things, and I'm so far from simple it's insane. You didn't put up with people by choice then, and… sometimes I wonder if you're just putting on a show for me. Not that that idea stay in my head for long, but… I don't know. I don't get why you're with me back before I got extra whacked up. I _really_ don't get it know."

I stay silent. How the fuck are you supposed to respond to that? Tweek has known me too long and too well to believe any stereotypical bullshit I could spew at him. I keep wondering what the fuck I should say, and Tweek gnaws at his bottom lip as he waits.

Eventually I find a foothold and just roll with it. "It's not like I was _enjoying_ life back them. I was just alive and trying to live as not pissed off as possible. I wasn't merrily skipping down the street at the simplicity of it. I was kind of suicidal. Well, it wasn't so much as I wished I was dead or wanted to kill myself so much as it was I honestly wished I was never born. There honestly wasn't anything I got out of bed for. If I was told that I could never leave my bed again, never walk, talk, do anything ever again, I probably wouldn't have complained any unless people insisted on visiting me. And trust me, diplomacy is not as simple as one might think.

"But you… I like talking to you. I like listening to you. I don't mind being around you. You aren't needy or whiney or loud or obnoxious. You never act like you're the most important thing on the face of the Earth. Hell, you barely act like you matter at all, which is bullshit. You're just so… I don't know. You're worth it. You're worth it the way more than anyone I've ever met."

"… Did you just tell me I'm_ your reason to live_?"

"Oh, _fuck_ you, you _ass_." And then we were both laughing. I'm fairly sure it was at least one part hysteria, but whatever.

…

I'm showering when Tweek comes barging into the bathroom. He's gotten into the habit of doing that now that we're both working and he needs to start getting ready for work. "You know, one of these days I'm going to be doing something very unattractive when you barge in here, like dropping a deuce."

"Meh," he says through his toothbrush.

"Whatever. It's not gonna be pretty."

"Meh."

As I wash the shampoo out of my hair I remember the date. "Christmas is next Wednesday."

"Damn. I guess it is."

"Do you, like, want to do something?"

"Not really. Why, do you?"

"No. Most normal people do, though."

"Well, see, there's your mistake. I'm not a normal person. And my parents did Christmas to death_."_

"I'm sure that's an exaggeration."

"To. _Death_. Lights and family and shopping and all that other shit that no one gives a damn about until the magical holidays. In my opinion, if you need a goddamn holiday to remind you that you give a shit about humanity or whatever, you don't really give a damn about humanity."

"Well, at least I don't have to worry about finding you a Valentine's gift."

He snorts. "That is such a girl's holiday."

"There's lying, too."

"Huh?"

"Holidays don't just 'remind.' They make people lie. Holidays are supposed to be magical, and if you aren't feeling the magic, then damn it, you better act it."

"I bet you're an excellent actor, Craig." And then he leaves the bathroom.

…

Tweek's changing when I head up to the bathroom to wash the dye out. We've finally gotten around to go shopping for the hair dye. Neither of us are even microscopic fans of shopping, so we've been putting it off. My roots, on the other hand, did not put off growing out and looking ridiculous. So we went out and bought some damn dye.

He was standing in a pair of basketball shorts, staring into the mirror, head cocked to the side.

I freeze, hoping that he can't see me through the mirror because, damn it, I have not gotten the chance to really look at him to too long. A whole three, four days.

"Hey, Craig."

Well, shit.

"Yeah, Tweek?"

"How do you think I look?"

"… That is a totally girly question."

"Fuck you and just answer the question." I walk up closer and lean against the wall. Sense he pretty much gave me permission to ogle as much as I want, I took my damn time.

And hell if he isn't a pretty dude. It isn't just his face, either. He's short and smooth and skinny to the point it's kind of insane his ribs aren't sticking out yet.

Girly, really.

If I was being honest with myself, I've pretty much have always liked to fuck chicks more- chicks with small tits (something that confused the shit out of Kenny.) I liked their softness. It was their general girly attitudes that repelled me.

It's the fact that he'd _punch_ me (and not at all in a girly manner,) if I called him soft and pretty and girly that makes him awesome.

"You look awesome, Tweek." I see him nod, still observing himself through the mirror.

"Do you still want me?"

If I had been drinking something, I would have spat it out. Comically.

Honesty or no. Lie or tell. Omit and straight to the point. Wrong answer could leave to blue balls to the end of the century.

"Yeah. Of course."

"Looking the way I do?"

"Yeah."

"Even after what Connar did?"

"_Yeah._Jesus, Tweek. Stupid questions." He's silent for a moment before he nods.

"You look ridiculous. Go wash your hair." I roll my eyes, not quite managing to keep the smirk off of my face, as I go into the bathroom.

Of course, I couldn't just wash my hair. Oh no, my brain has other ideas. Ideas involving the half naked Tweek I'd just spent a decent amount of time staring at not too long ago. Ideas that pumped through my brain into my blood that pumped itself southward.

My hand follows it.

I've barely gotten started when the curtain is pulled back. And there's Tweek, catching me with my dick in my hand. Quite literally. "Jesus!" I think of a wide variety of other things I could yell at him, but before I can his next sentence stops me cold.

Or hot. Very, very hot.

"Keep going."

… …

**AN 2.0: **Hehehe, le evil tease! Mwuahaha. Speaking I'm not that great of a lemon writer, I figured that me attempting to put one in at the end would have just ruined the flow. Reviews, please!


	21. Chapter 21

**AN: **Oh my God, this took forever to write. I hit a major wall... and then I went off and wrote two one-shots (which you should go read!) I blame the limes. Let me tell you, citrus is _not_ my forte. But enough dillydallying! Read on!

… …

I _really _like watching Craig. I'm not even sure what made me walk into the bathroom the first time. All I was thinking was that I wasn't sure if he was lying or not when he said that he still wants me. Personally, I don't see my appeal, but whatever. I'm not the one boning me.

And then I walked in, and you know, it wasn't that hard (lies!) to see where he got that chubby from.

And, God, seeing him wet and dripping in more ways than one was just- _ngh_.

It turns me into a hot mess of goop, moaning right there along with him as he pumps his hand up and down that glorious slab of meat in between his legs.

It took a few days to follow pursuit, though.

But when I did, the heated look Craig gave me nearly made me cum before it was all the way out.

I mean, what else would a guy do if they had a hot fucker like Craig standing in his naked, hot glory in front of them when they hadn't gotten off in months?

… Yes, months. Shut up.

Today I was feeling adventurous. Or maybe I was just bored. Maybe I just felt empty, but I went to kneel on the toilet, leaning on the counter. I lubed up my finger.

"Hey, Craig."

I waited until I felt he was looking before sinking my finger in. It was a strange feeling, but not unpleasant.

What were _really_ not unpleasant were Craig's groans.

"Jesus, Tweek."

Indeed.

… …

"What is this blasphemy?" Craig announced as he enters the front door. He was talking about the music I have blasting from our stereo.

"… Yo Yo Ma? Sonata N?"

"And _why_ are you listening to Yo Yo Ma?"

"Well, it might not me Yo Yo Ma. I may or may not have downloaded it off a not-so-reliable website, so really it could be anyone. I mean, one time I downloaded a song by Bare Jr. that they said was Placebo. Now _that_ is blasphemy. I am also not sure you know what blasphemy is." I see him move towards the stereo, presumably to skip the song, and I throw the orange I was previously planning to eat straight at his head.

It hits his shoulder, but close enough.

"Aye, back away from the music player! This is as far as I've ever gotten through this song, and I want to hear the end of it, damn it!" He gives me a dirty look, but moves to lay on the couch, staring at me.

See? I'm not the only one who likes watching.

I go to grab an apple (the orange is just going to have to rot on the floor until one of us decides to pick it up) and the knife, but then the knife morphs into an albino snake and shimmies up the wall.

Well, not physically. I suppose for you normal-seeing people it's still a knife sitting on the counter. But my brain has perceived it as a snake, and it shall remain a snake until proven otherwise.

We live in a world of perception. _Everything_ is perception. Sparks in your brain is all the world is, really. Anything that isn't physical damage to your body doesn't exist unless you see it, feel it,_ know_ it. No amount of compassion can change that fact. They're just numbers and facts unless something crawls itself under your skin, and suddenly you care about that, but even that doesn't pop into existence from nowhere. Energy cannot be created. It comes from somewhere, otherwise it would just fall under the _So Sad, Can't Help _category.

Anyway. Perception. Bad perception = the crazies.

I wonder for a moment what's making the snake stay at that particular spot, if it's a glare or a stain, or maybe it really is a wall-climbing snake and is just waiting to jump down and attack me head-first.

I stick my hand out, skimming the counter, hoping to make contact with the handle of the knife that I know (in theory) should still be laying there.

I can't find it. For a second I panic (how the hell am I going to get that knife-snake down and kill it? I suppose I could make Craig get it,) before I hear Craig's gruff voice say, "Tweek."

I glance over at him, a twitch of a smile on my lips. He's staring at me with hard, analyzing eyes. That is also called his_ Crazy Boyfriend Analyzing _look. I don't know exactly when he moved, but at least he's here to chase away the knife-snake know. "Yo, Craig. Have you seen a white knife around here?" I ask in my best chill voice.

His eyebrow twitches up at me, and he shakes his fist at me that is holding previously mentioned knife. I glance up to the ceiling to see that the knife-snake is gone.

Now that I think back, the snake had a nose.

"Hey, look at that! Can I have that back now?" He gives me a squinty-eyed glare. "What? Oh, come on, I haven't stabbed anyone is a psychotic fit in years! ... What? No, damn it, Craig, I was joking. Mostly. It was a toothpick. I mean, I'm sure Cindi would bitch about it, but it's really not a _shank_ as she loves to call it-"

"Tweek, go lay down."

"I'm fine-"

"Shutty. Go sitty." I grumble as I go, but I follow directs. He comes back with a cut up and peeled apple.

Yes, I know, pussy move. I just don't like the peels.

"Thank you."

A grunt is my reply. "So… knife-spider?"

"Knife-_snake_," I correct.

"Damn. I wouldn't fuck with a knife-snake if I were you. I hear those things are, well… imaginary."

"Ha, ha,_ so_ funny."

… …

I'm fairly sure I'm at least half deaf by now. Craig and I have been blasting _Make it Rain_ (and other equally loud and bass-tastic songs) for the last twenty minutes. One of my neighbor has already come to complain.

I'm not quite sure what she said- my hearing is very selective- but I heard Craig snort and say, "Oh, go work for your rent. Our landlord can only keep it up for so long, you know, he's getting old."

"Fuck you, you fags!" she screeches.

"Go to hell, you fucking shriveled-up hag!" I yell at my meth-head of a neighbor, who lives a few doors down, as Craig slams the door. She can't be older than twenty-five, but she looks fifty. She's got a real Fergie thing going on.

"I'm fairly sure that one of 'em is going to call the cops on us soon. Disrupting the peace or whatever."

"One of our basic rights is the pursuit of happiness. What makes me happy is loud music and not having to listen to our neighbors fuck." His lips twitch a smile at me before flopping down on our ugly-ass couch. In all honesty he probably has a point. It's getting late, and we're probably keeping a fair amount of people up… I don't care.

Craig wasn't kidding when he said that he has neighbors from hell. I have yet to find one I can stand, let alone like. Living here is like living in some war-ridden danger zone- our goal is to kill.

Or at the very least annoy the living hell out of each other. You would not _believe_ the shit we've done to Aunt Moonshine (whose name I know to be Sherry, but I like Craig's name for her more.) She has to be an online member to _at least_ seventeen cults by now. To my knowledge, she has taken up five of them. Every once and awhile we listen to her rants through the wall. She is a constant form of entertainment as long as she isn't in front of you.

Despite the ridiculously loud music, it's a very peaceful night. "I need to start practicing my keyboards skillz again. I haven't played in forever. I'm probably getting rusty," I force out between yawns.

"Hm. So how good are you?" I head-butt his shoulder, but my head somehow doesn't move up from his shoulder. I give a strange half-shrug.

"Pretty good."

"Pretty good?"

"Listen, I don't want to be the self-undermining amazing player, but I don't want to be the douche who is bragging about how _astounding_ I am, so let's just leave it at _pretty good_."

"Could you, like, make a living off of it?"

"Maybe, if I wanted to. Shut up and let me sleep." I tuck myself under him, burrowed into his side. He goes silent.

When I'm nearly asleep, I feel my blanket move. I nearly topple over before he stops me. I keep my eyes closed, hoping for a free ride upstairs. After a second a hesitant hand comes up and rests on my cheek. His hands are warm.

He picks me up eventually, and carries me upstairs.

… …

I wake up in the middle on the night, warmer than usual. It takes me a minute to realize the pressure running from the back of my head down my back is Craig pressed against me, arms around me.

Instantly I'm completely awake, my whole body tingles with energy. I try to decide if it was panic or something else, but I think it's a good thing. It definitely feels good.

I sigh and try to get even closer. Craig's arms tighten for a second- making me twitch- but he lightens up again. He hear him mutter something in his sleep before dropping his head over mine.

And, God, does it feel amazing.

But, because it's me, I had to go and fuck things up.

Have you ever gotten the feel that there's something outside your window, and if you look they're be some boogey man outside? Yes? Me, too. The difference being, of course, that if there isn't any boogey man outside my brain is perfectly willing to make one up for me.

I know this. I need to stop looking out damn windows in the middle of the night.

But I don't. Because I'm stupid and paranoid.

Sure enough, perched on the windowsill there's a giant viper-centipede thing with a clown mask.

Who wouldn't scream like a girl to get away from that thing?

It's gone the second I start screaming, but the damage is done. Craig's awake and all too aware of me trying to claw myself out of his grasp and away from him. He lets go and I go flying, straight into the wall.

My brain was fried. My nerves were pulled tight in panic. I can't even figure out where I want to be, where I want to go, where the fuck the viper-clown thing went.

And then I see Craig.

_Sweet Lord, Craig._

I think I hear him apologizing- for what, I have no fucking idea- before I hurtle myself at him and start clinging for dear life. I wrap myself around him, strattling him, practically sobbing.

Okay, maybe not just _practically_ sobbing.

I feel Craig's hand in my hair, but it's not enough. I press myself closer, pushing my face into his neck, breathing him in. And it's him, too, not some cheap cologne or fancy soap or anything but straight-up Craig. After a second I feel Craig's arms wrap lightly around me. I press my lips his. He presses back, but not as hard. A whine of discouragement squeezed out of my throat. I want _more_ and I want _closer _and I want him _so fucking bad_.

"God, please, Craig, please_, please_," I beg, not even sure what I want. Craig pulls me closer, and I hear myself moan. I try to coax his tongue out, and eventually I feel it pressing against my lips.

My hands leave his shoulders to go for the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head before he can really process what's happened, going for his next.

Jesus Christ, he looks amazing.

I feel him hard underneath me, and felt the _rush_ of want that's been gone for so long flood back in.

My brain is gone, any sense I had is out the window, and all that's left is want.

No, it's _need_, the need to be closer to this guy. My guy.

As soon as my hand starts palming him through his pants he stops me.

"Craig," I whine, high and needy. I think I hear him groan, but I'm not sure. "Please? Please let me…"

"No, sweetie, you don't really mean it."

"Yes, I do," I groan, grinding against him. "Don't tell me you can't feel that."

"Baby, please."

"Yeah, please, _please_."

"You don't mean it. You were hysterical a few minutes ago."

"But… I want you." I start pressing myself against him as much as I can, like a wanton whore.

"Yeah? Like how?"

Hm. I have hit a wall. I am not what one would call a skilled dirty talker. So I do what I usually do- call upon my musical lyric knowledge.

"I want your fresh young jimmy jamming, slamming, ramming in me-" he kisses me before I can keep going.

"Not today."

"Please."

"No."

And once the crying headache started to kick in, I couldn't complain as much. "You know, sex is an excellent way to get rid of headaches," I argue weakly.

He kisses me again. "Shut up."

… …

**AN 2.0: **Le done! Again, sorry for taking forevah to upload. Reviews make me just faster! Oh, and the song Tweek was quoting up there was _Flower_ by Liz Phair.


	22. Chapter 22

AN: Okay, so writers' block sucks some major balls. I shall never internally mock an author for it again. NEVER. And Tweek's meds don't really exist, to my knowledge. Still don't own South Park.

Oh, and Craig's mind is starring in this chapter.

… … **Haphephobia**

Cerritophibian, consausibivitan, fraumismum, amissityiranta, ineptinflorazene, scissilum… Just some of the names on the bottles sitting on the counter in front of Tweek.

I'm sure he can pronounce them all correct, how they help him, how they fuck with him.

He's trying to tell me about them- just in case- but I'm lost. I have no idea how me manages to keep them all straight, and then I figure he's been on these things for years. Of course he knows them. A part of me is angry that he takes these. That he gets doped down and frozen up. It's completely illogical, though. I know. He reminds me every time he sees me glaring at the bottles that despite their bad name, some of these help him. Some of these keep him alive.

"What happened to good ol' lithium? Isn't that what they're supposed to give you crazy fuckers?" I say, trying to joke.

Not taking his eyes off of the bottles sitting in front of him, he yanks open the mirror and grabs another bottle from the cabinet that hides there. He tosses it to me.

Sure enough, it read LITHIUM.

"That shit really isn't for schizophrenics. It's more of a bipolar kind of pill. You know, moody things. I had this one shrink two years ago that read my typical teenage irritability and the preexisting crazies as schizoaffective disorder. Which is kind of like bipolar schizophrenia, for you simpletons," he says, giving me a quick smile. "But thank God I don't really have that. I don't take it. Never have. That's the same bottle I had sense the prescription. My parents never made me take that one because the prescriber dared tell them they were doing a bad job raising me- can't remember what he'd said, exactly, but it made me _so_ happy. I'm not even sure why I brought it with me. Could probably sell it to Ronny…"

"Who's Ronny?"

"Town dealer. One of 'em, anyway. I like him the most. This town's Kenny, kinda."

I gasp dramatically. "Tweek! Are you in cahoots with a _drug dealer_? Shame! They're a dangerous crowd, you know. They have very contagious morals, and we all know how impressionable you are. They could turn you into a crack whore before you realize it!" I say in my best impersonation of his mother as I can do without feeling the need to rip out my own vocal chords.

"… I would never do such a thing," he says with shifty eyes. I laugh, and he smiles at me before continuing. "We went to school together, got along fine. I've pawned extra pills off to him before. People get hooked on the weirdest shit. He takes anything I've got to give."

"Whore."

"Whatever. It's decent way to get an extra buck." I blink at him. "Oh, for the love of Christ, pull your head out of the gutter." He pauses for a second. "Okay, I kind of set myself up for that. Either way, stop distracting me."

"What're you doing again?"

"Fixing my meds."

"Right. Of course. I forgot you were a master chemist."

"Well, Ronny's no genius, but he still manages to cook up a decent batch of meth every once in awhile."

"_What?_"

"From what I've heard. Never actually had any. Stop giving me that look."

"I wasn't giving you a look." I know perfectly well that I was giving him a look. The thought of Tweek doing anything so… harmful makes my skin crawl. He just shakes his head at me.

"I'm not, like, breaking down their chemical bonds and turning them into some magical pill that I only have to take once and be done with it. Just… switching up the pattern in which I take them."

"Why?"

A slightly annoyed look pops onto his face just as his mouth opens, and then it goes blank. "You know, I was almost going to say that I'm sick of all your questions, but then I remembered you're the first person to ever ask me, you know? It's actually kinda nice. Kinda. So I guess I'll continue to answer them.

"My crazy generally comes in two forms. Seeing things and having them in my head." Them being what he called his voice thing that is not an actual voice. Nor is it a he or she or an actual it, as he puts it. "It was the last pronoun I could think of, and The Voice is _so_ cliché," he'd said. Tweek is not a fan of the clichés. It doesn't help that his attention span rivals those of a… thing with short attention span. It's very short, okay?

"Jesus Christ, Craig, you say I have a short attention span. Feel like coming back to this world?"

"Yeah. Right. Continue."

"_Thank you._ As I was saying, two types of crazy. Seeing and…" He still hasn't quite pinned down a word for the non-hearing thing. "Them. As of right now, I'm seeing a lot of shit. In fact, there's a scorpion nesting in your hair as we speak. I prefer them over seeing that. I can never be quite sure what's real or not when I'm seeing shit. I have the basic knowledge that the emperor scorpion aren't even native to this whole fucking continent, but there it is. Resting in your bed head. It's not even poisonous to humans, it's just big and ugly and _ew_. Actually, most scorpions aren't particularly poisonous, just ugly. They're actually quite timid-"

"Tweek. Focus."

"Anyway. They are way more unreliable than my eyes… or part of my brain that works with my eyes. But them… they're completely false. Nothing about them is true. Nothing near them is true. Can't say the same about seeing shit. I try to stay away from the hallucinating as much as possible."

"Then why not just stick with the meds that do just that?"

"Sometimes I get too used to a certain pill, which is… bad, in a way. Sometimes my cocktail stops working the way it did. Last time it was because… they were being an asshole. It just started getting really bad a few days ago. I don't really like playing with these things to begin with, and any pharmacists or whatever around here are completely useless. So… I just suck it up most of the time."

"What were they saying that made them assholes?"

"You don't wanna know."

"… Now I really want to know."

"Things that would make you punch the shit out of something. And, because they're inside my own skull, I don't want you punching the source."

I huff at him, but drop the subject. After a few more minutes of Tweek muttering to himself, he finally popped a few of the pills- dry, I might add- and walks out the door.

But not before swiping his hand over the top of my head. Swiping away the scorpions. Gotta give that guy some credit, he's not very jump when it comes to that shit.

… …

I can see why Tweek doesn't like fucking with his meds. He's been acting like a zombie all weekend. He spent all Saturday in bed, and the only reason he came downstairs Sunday is because I carried him. He'd been sustaining himself on ice cream and soda. Thank God we have the stomach lining of any college student, otherwise he would have probably died of malnutrition that weekend. He hasn't got much stored up to survive on.

On Monday, I had to convince him to stay home. "No, I can't take a day off. I've only been working for a few weeks, I can't have Mrs. Greenburg thinking I'm some sort of sll…" and then he fell back asleep. So I won that argument.

I wasn't quite sure what I was going to tell Mrs. Greenburg, but when I showed up to tell her Tweek can't come to work today because he was having a bad day…

The way her eyes softened with sympathy, no other explanation necessary, it occurred to me that Mrs. Tweak wasn't above playing the My Poor, Sick Child card. That most of this town probably knows about Tweek's sickness.

He doesn't talk about it much, but I know that he's ashamed of it. He hates it with every bone in his body and wishes it would just go away, and that he'd be pissed if he knew-

And that's when I realize that he probably already did know.

_Why did he put up with that woman?_

… …

His hair is tickling my nose. I can't move because I'm worried that it'd wake him up, and I know that he's been more knocked out that sleeping the last few days. I wonder how he could possibly have fallen asleep with how much just my breathing moves him.

He's so small. Fragile. No wonder he's always tearing people's heads off when he's awake. When I see him this way, it's just so obvious how _weak_ he is. I mean… seriously. He's _tiny_. He puts Keira Knightly to shame.

People still use him. Abuse him. Walk all over him.

I don't get how you could do that.

I get being a dick. I really, honestly do. Most people deserve it. But not Tweek. Tweek couldn't hurt a fly. He may wish a slow and painful death upon the fly, and then continue on to fetch someone to carry out the slow and painful death, but… still. A fly could probably hurt him more than he could hurt it.

Maybe I shouldn't have talking about a fly. He hates bugs. So much.

A small rodent, maybe.

… …

Haphephobia.

It comes in many forms.

Tweek still seizes up whenever someone tries to touch him. Whenever someone steps too close or is just a little too affectionate (or appears to be planning on being too affectionate,) he nearly flies away from them, landing with me in between him and them.

It makes me _proud_, almost, to be the one that Tweek trusts most in this world.

Even so. He tries not to let me see, but I still see him flinch sometimes when I surprise him, or move too fast, or…

He flinches away from me. That's the thought that echoes in my head.

Even holding him in his sleep is losing its appeal. It just feels… wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. Touching him at all feels wrong.

Not that I don't _want_ to. Fuck, do I want to. I'm too selfish to stop at night, but once the sun rises I just can't. It makes me so fucking happy when he comes to me and crawls into my lap and presses himself into me until it's impossible for me _not_ to put my arms around him.

But I can't start it. It feels like I'm pressuring him. I can't do that to him. Not when people have been using him up like they have for so long. He doesn't need me stressing him out, too. I don't need him flinching at me more. I can't stress the trust he has in me.

So, yeah, I'm a little afraid to touch him.

So, yeah, I'm a little nervous that he isn't flinching so much anymore.

And my tongue is finding itself in his mouth more.

And he's moaning so fucking much.

And he's crawling in more.

And pressing closer.

And deeper.

It's making my skin crawl how bad I just want to throw him off me, turn him over, and fuck him until he will _never_ forget exactly who owns his ass.

Then he'd probably want to cuddle. I could deal with that.

But, _God_, it's hard to explain. I just don't want to hurt him, okay?

… …

Tweek is no angel. A fact easily forgotten until you leave him alone for five seconds and come back to him cussing out no other than The Hussy.

Or Cindi. Depends on who you ask. She's The Hussy to us.

And he looks pissed.

And he remains pissed.

Which is how his angry stage started. The Hussy at the gas station with a pillow-biter joke.

… …

It's hard to describe his anger, other than fairly constant.

Anger, anger, anger, anger, anger, sad.

And which point there's clinging. Other times there's just angry ranting. Even when he's not ranting he still radiates the _I Hate the Fucking World_ off.

I'm still unbelievably thrilled that he's more likely to direct his anger at the "motherfucking, ball-freezing, whore-mongering dickweed of a fridge," than me.

It's really quite bizarre. Right now he's eating ice cream. Angrily. Who the hell is capable of eating Ben & Jerry's angrily?

Anger Stage Tweek can.

But for now, I wait. I wait until there's a crack in the anger, at which point I shall swing the metaphorical hammer of healing.

Damn. This is ridiculous. Why can't we just fuck and make up?

_Because you really, really honestly don't want to because you want him to be all happy and sweet again._

Oh, _shut up._

… …

"Craig, I have a problem," Tweek announces from his hiding spot. Tweek, you see, always arrives home before I do. And he never turns on the light. Never. Which means he's always lurking somewhere in the shadows, just waiting to pop up and startle me, always acting _so_ surprised and innocent when I jump. Today he was less sneaky, the glow of his laptop giving away his location.

"And what is that problem?"

"Why the fuck is it so hard to find a decent homo story?"

"Oh, that's simple. Half of us are girls, so we… or shall I say you will be written as a damsel in distress, good for nothing other than getting kidnapped and getting fucked. I shall be a rough cop, possibly a werewolf, with a gruff exterior but has a soft spot for wittle guys such as yourself. We shall fall completely in love in no more than three days, and be together forever."

"Yes! Exactly! Why, why is there nothing else?"

"Because homo romance has not yet progressed passed said stage. Maybe it hasn't sunk into their heads yet that most homos tend to like fellow males and not just girls with dicks. But, you know, that's generalizations that I made to fit myself." I pause for a second. "And it may help if you buy books that are more expensive than four dollars. Trashy romance novels are trashy romance novels, no matter the people in it."

"Meh… and what is all this 'you,' as in me business?"

"What do you think?"

"Psh, whatever. I wanna fuck _you_ now, just to spite them," he mutters.

… …

AN 2.0: Okay, done. I'm in a horrible hole right now. I'll try to write through it but damn… I need to come up with some ideas for this story. I feel as though there's too much empty air, you know? Anyway, review. Help the needy.


	23. Chapter 23

AN: I'm getting really bad at uploading. I apologize to y'all. And what the hell is up with the new set-up on the accounts? Oh, and read my oneshots, if you haven't already. Alright, seriously, shameless plugging is over and read on. POV de Craig.

… …. **Humans are so Inhuman**

"You know, I could probably bench press you."

"Fuck you."

"I could."

"_Fuck_. You."

Making fun of Tweek is fun. Especially his height. His general size, really. I may not be a giant, but him… damn. He's adorably small. I inform him of such.

He punches me in the ribs. It's a painful reminder than he is not as weak as he looks.

When I tell him that he just looks at me. I smile at him. He rolls his eyes. I pick him up. "Jesus, will you stop doing this?" he screeches. I shake my head, twisting my torso right along with it. "Uh, I'm gonna get sick. Throw up right in your face," he moans. I grin and drop him onto the couch. He glares at me and pulls me down. "You, my friend, are an asshole. And I'm not _that_ small."

I wrap my hand around his thigh and lift up. "Do you see this? Hands are not supposed to nearly wrap around thighs. Unless _you_ are a tiny, tiny man."

He scoffs. "You have strangely large hands."

"And you're tiny."

"I'm a slightly smaller than average person."

"You're tiny."

"Whatever," he mutters, breaking eye contact. He starts blushing and his eyes start drooping. He starts biting his lip.

I feel my eye furrow, confused.

And then I glance down.

I shoot up faster than my dick can react. "I'm sorry," I mutter, not even looking at him. I can't even explain the unpleasant prickling that burns under my skin. I feel myself almost blushing, and this strange feeling- shame? Embarrassment?- rushes through me.

Maybe it was my usually silent conscious waking up and yelling at me, "That is completely inappropriate to do to Tweek, you know you're not supposed to get that close to him, he's scared and doesn't like being touched and you were forcing yourself on him and you _know this_!"

"I'm sorry," I repeat before rushing out the door.

"Wait, Craig-" slam.

… …

You know, Fucking Connar drives by Rit's every day. Every fucking day. He slows down to a crawl going by, I can't shake the feeling that he's trying to rub what he'd done in my face. Or maybe he's just trying to relive that day. I decide that the later is worse, but both are crimes worthy of death.

On January 29th, Fucking Connar drove straight by Rit's, incapable of stopping. Maybe his breaks weren't working. Shit like that happens. Karma and all that... or, you know, pissed off boyfriends.

I waited until I heard the crash to rush out of the store. And I only rushed so that I could get a front row seat to the show.

I still wasn't the first one there. Fucking Connar crashes into a tree at the end of the road, car catching on fire nearly immediately (I may have loosened a thing or two in the engine, too.)

There was a ring of people surrounding the car. It was strangely quiet, but I could tell that people were only moments away from freaking out. Someone must have called 911, though, because I can hear the sirens coming towards us. Not that they'll really make a big difference, in the long run. Maybe prevent the fire from burning down the whole town.

I can hear his screaming. I could picture his ugly, smug face just melting off, his skin blistering and popping and slowly peeling away, his muscles snapping in tension and bones popping in the heat.

I felt strangely apathetic at the event.

A minute later I feel a hand slip into mine. I glance down, seeing Tweek. He leans up to whisper, "You should work on looking more horrified. I can only push alexithymia so hard." I grunt at him, but he has a point.

I work up a startled face, and eventually it looks completely terrified. Completely immobile in fear. "Good boy," I hear Tweek mutter.

… …

Killing a guy is a weird occurrence.

Not because I feel morally compromised, no. I mean, I've felt like killing people for less things before. I think he _really_ deserved to die. Besides, the world is already overpopulated as it is. The world isn't exactly suffering if he falls off the face of the Earth. Tweek's probably more bothered by my actions than I am. In fact, I know he is. So I'm letting him work through that. I don't ev-

I was about to say I don't understand why people get all worked up over death. It's a natural occurrence- we're animals, animals kill other animals, and animals die. But, you know, I kind of realized I would not be exactly thrilled if Tweek suddenly died the way Connor did just two hours ago. No, sir, I don't like it.

It didn't feel bad. I thought I might feel something, some satisfaction or maybe some regret, but really it wasn't any more satisfying than taking out the trash. Fun, no. But still necessary.

You know, a part of me wondered if I'd discover some hidden homicidal urges. But nope. The event was rather anticlimactic. Definitely not worth the risk again.

"Craig?" I look up to see Tweek standing on the staircase. He looks as insecure as I've ever seen him, but he looks more nervous than anything else. "You did that, didn't you?"

"Well, yeah." I doubt Tweek's going to rat on me. He sighs, looking down.

"You can't do that shit. It's… inhuman and whatever."

"Okay." He sighs again and shuffles forward. Eventually he falls forward into my lap. I wrap my arms around him lightly and he presses closer.

"But for what it's worth- thanks."

"No problem."

I feel like there was another message beneath those words, but hell if I could really pinpoint it. I don't really think it's necessary, though. Trying to understand everything is completely overrated. It's good enough as it is.

I sensed that Tweek was gearing up to say something, so I wasn't surprised when he asks, "Does it make me a bad person that I'm not upset at all that he died that way? Fucking tortured, I mean."

I snort. "Fuck no. I did it and I don't feel bad." I could feel his eyes roll. "No one is as good a person as anyone thinks. I mean, seriously. It's bullshit to think people aren't allowed to hate or be even a little sadistic. Or a lot. Maybe it's not perfectly normal, but then again, who's ever going to find out? I'm not going to tell anyone. I don't care. I think it's fine. You're not hurting anyone. Everyone has bad thoughts and want to do bad things. Horrible things, sometimes. The only ones who indulge in it are the selfish ones. I don't really believe in badness or whatever. Only selfishness, and selfishness is incredibly human. You're… you're fine, sweetie. Not bad at all."

He barks out a laugh. His voice sounds all cracked, like he's really about to cry. But he's not, damn it, because he is a man. "When the fuck did you start all this _sweetie_ nonsense?"

"I… have no fucking idea. I think it's best for both of our dignities if we just don't talk about it." He laughs again. He shifts again, this time with his legs on either side of me. He kisses me, and we go like that for awhile, making out leisurely.

Of course, that doesn't last long.

I don't notice that Tweek has himself half naked until he tries to go for my clothes, too. Sneaky little bastard.

I jerk myself up and away."No."

"Why?" he demands from the couch, getting up with his shirt still in one hand.

"Because."

"Damn it, Craig!" he yells.

"I'm not the one afraid of being touched!"

"I'm not afraid of you!" I feel my arm lash out and grab him, pulling him close. I stare down at him, my face feeling tight and intense. He flinches hard, and tries to jerk away. I don't let him. He keeps twitching for a minute before he just stops. We stay like that, frozen, for a few minutes.

"Don't I?" I finally whisper.

"What wasn't fair," he whispers back. I snort before letting him go and stalking away. I flop back down onto the couch, staring straight through the television. My minds a mess, filled to the brim of all this bullshit and-

Why can't things just be simple?

I don't even notice Tweek, who'd managed to straddle my legs when I was distracted, until he's got my button popped and my fly halfway down. "Tweek! The fuck, man?" I yell, grabbing his wrist.

"Come on, Craig, please," he whispers. His head starts going down, so I have to stop that do. I fist his hair, not really pulling but firm enough that he can't move forward. Of course, that means he had to look up at me through his oh so pretty lashes.

The image isn't exactly _unattractive. _So not unattractive, in fact, I forgot about his other hand until it starts playing with my fly again. "Damn it, Tweek!" I flip us over, my body pinning him down.

Of course, he seems rather satisfied with this progression. I try to lift myself off him, but then his hands go back to work. "Damn it, Tweek!" I yell. I look down at him, finally making eye contact.

Which was what I like to call _a mistake_.

Because he looked so fucking sad, right then, that I froze. I mean, what was I supposed to do? You look into those eyes and try to do anything other than a direct order of what would make that damn look go away.

So there I was, hovering above Tweek who'd burrowed his hands underneath my shirt, groping like he hasn't gotten any in months.

Which I suppose he has. Poor lil' guy.

"Craig," he whispers. He lifts up, and I move to lay on my side. He follows pursuit. He presses himself as close as possible to me, resting there for a few minutes before he starts traveling downwards again.

"Tweek…"

"Please, Craig, please, I need this so bad. I need you and I need to be close to you and I need…" his voice fades out as he travels lower, nuzzling into my chest, then my stomach, and eventually in between my legs. He kisses the bulge resting there and the surrounding area for awhile, longer that I'd anticipated.

_Oh, so now you want to._

Well, _yeah_. I was only holding out for him.

_Mhm, yeah, sure, because he looks so put off right now. _

… I wonder if this is how Tweek feels.

"Craig."

"Hn?" I look down at him, and _goddamn_. Pretty sight. Very pretty sight.

"Please." Begging. Nice touch.

And he's going to make me ask for it, isn't he? He is. He totally is. Jesus. Breathe. List.

**1)** He seems fine.

**2)** He's offering to blow you.

**3)** Sometimes taking chances is necessary for healing.

**4)** Free blowjob three fucking inches away.

**5)**People make mistakes sometimes.

**6)** Dude. Seriously. Blowjob.

**7)** And who's to say this is would be a mistake?

**8)** For the love of Christ, dude, seriously, your manhood is leaking out your pussy every second you keep debating this.

"Yeah, okay."

"Thank you," he sighs. And then neither of us say much for awhile.

… …

Afterwards he crawls back up and says, "Hold me." The determined look in his eyes don't leave room for much debate, but I still hesitate. After the minimum amount of inner debate, I wrap my arms around him. "Tighter." I don't. The amount of pressure I have now took weeks of careful testing. "_Do it_." So I do. And it feels nice.

I feel myself falling asleep, but I feel Tweek lifting my arm up. I wake up and back off fast. I hear Tweek breathing. "Do it again."

"Tweek-"

"I'm testing something out. Do it, damn it." So I do. I admit to being his bitch, for now.

We repeat that process for awhile, and then he pulls me on top of him. He pushes me off him after a few minutes, but then he pulls me back again.

I'm waiting for my next move, when he sighs, "Yeah, I'm good." He tucks my his head into my neck, his hair tickling my nose.

We fall asleep on my ugly ass couch, closer than we'd been in too damn long.

… …

AN 2.0: Done! Finally fucking done! Jesus Cristo, this was hard. Reviews, please! Also, I stuck a Ren & Stimpy (well, Mr. Horse, really) quote in here somewhere. First person to find it gets to request a oneshot because I'm feeling oh so generous mood due to the school year nearly being over.


	24. Chapter 24

**AN: **So this took a wee bit longer to get out than usual because I have a side project exploding in my mind that y'all aren't going to see until I get it all straight and crap, and I'm even going to hazard _prewriting_ (I _loathe_ prewriting,) for the side project. Or maybe it'll be a future project. Have I mentioned that this story is nearing its end? I KNOW, it's sad. I'm not saying it only has one chapter left or anything, but definitely not another twenty. Or ten (probably.) Probably around five. Maybe.

Contest still stands, only this chapter has a lyric from a song by The Bloodhound Gang. And one from The White Stripes. Both of them are a tiny bit altered. You can find either one of them. Last chapter's was "No, sir, I don't like it." Said by Mr. Horse, of course.

Oh, and fact of the day- for the love of all things Holy, do NOT Google Image gangrene. Seriously. Unless you want to, then feel free. But don't say I didn't warn you.

… …

**Simplicity**

"Owwww…" I moan, feeling the slow pain as it was pushed into me. But Craig ignored me and kept pushing .

**You crazy motherfucker. What the hell are you doing? You could **_**die**_** from this. It's been known to happen. **Psh.

"Oh, shut up, you asked me to do this," he mutters, focused on his goal. He pulls out just as quick as he'd pushed in before changing tools. "It probably didn't even hurt that bad," he continues, shoving the new instrument of torture in.

"Well, no. But it burned. And I'm an aichmophobe."

"You most certainly are not. Melodramatic is what you are. If you were an aichmophobe, you would already be a sobbing, sniveling mess on the floor." I scoff at Craig as he cleans off the new hole he just _tore into my ear._

"Do you want me to do the other ear, too? I've got a few more studs here."

"Yeah, sure. Can you do another on the same ear?"

"Probably," he says, cleaning off the another stud (heh, stud handling the studs,) and the safety pin he'd used the first time. That damn safety pin. It's to blame for all this insanity. We'd been down at the gas station getting ice cream (we do not care that it's in the semi-middle of the winter, we wanted some damn ice cream,) and we'd walked by a pack of safety pins. And some earrings. Normally, we wouldn't have been bothered. But I'd suddenly been hit by the idea to get some ear piercings, and apparently Craig had pierced more than one ear because it was his favorite form of _You Lost a Bet Against Me and Now You Pay_ (he'd pierced his own once too, but he'd let it close up,) and so…

**Crazy. Crazy crazy crazy crazy. **Whatever. We're broke. We do things the ghetto way. Besides, they shouldn't have put those two things right next to each other. It's the root of many bad ideas.

**So you admit to it being a bad idea! Brilliant, and now all you have to do is tell Craig to stop and take out the other one and we can pretend this whole episode never happened. **

The first time he'd spent, like, fifteen minutes making sure the he was about to pierce _just_ the right spot and making sure that he was going to put it in straight and making sure I stayed still, which ended with me in schoolboy pin ("Too late to turn back now," the asshole said,) slowly building up the tension. I thought I was going to fucking burst before he-

"Ow! Don't surprising me!" I yell at him, and I swear to God he jerks the pin just to be a prick. He snorts. "Why can't you just use the earring, jackass? I'm fairly sure you're just adding an unnecessary step."

"Do you have any idea how blunt these things are? Google didn't say we couldn't do it this way. And what's the worst thing that can happen? Besides, last time you bitched about me taking too long." he says.

**Well, you could get gangrene, necrotizing fascitis-** I don't think NF happens in ears **- Fuck you, you know nothing. And… infections, scarring, he could put it in crooked, he could accidentally break a bone in your ear, he could break a bone in your ear **_**on purpose**_**- **fairly sure those bones are in the inside of your ear- _**scar you for life, **_**um…. other ways. This could seriously screw up your life!**

"They think you could kill me." He rolls his eyes.

"They can go fuck themselves." I smile at him as he puts a wet paper towel thing on my ear. I'd never admit it out loud, but it's nice being able to talk about what goes on in my head without the other person acting like I just announced that I have a brain tumor. Being a schizo may not be the main part of me, but it's still a pretty damn big part. It's still a part of me, even if it is a really cracky part. Talking about it isn't a problem for me. My problem is that everyone I know that knows about me is focused on _Make It Better_ instead of _Coping with It_. "Keep this on, it'll make it hurt less," Craig says, dragging me out of my moping. "All you have to do now is keep it clean and twist it every once in awhile and blah, blah, blah. It'll be fine. It's not going to get a really bad infection unless we're stupid about it." I jump off the counter and went up to the bathroom to look into the mirror. My ear looks really red.

Craig comes up behind me, resting his arm over my shoulders. He's been really touchy feely since last week, when it finally settled in his brain that he's allowed to touch me. Not that I'm complaining. Craig's kind of a dick.

**Yes! See the light! He's a dange-**

Don't get me wrong, I really like him, but sometimes it's hard to remember that he likes me. It's really easy to tell if he _dislikes_ you, but it's damn near impossible to tell if he _likes_ me- or anyone. He's no good with words, so a lot of what he is is found in his actions, and my stupid, paranoid brain decided to cut off his actions. So it was a little worrisome at times. Every once in awhile I wonder if I'm just _okay_ in his eyes and the only reason he chose me over anyone else is because I'm _okay_ instead of _terrible_.

I don't need to ask anymore, or wonder. Not really. He wouldn't bother being so close to me all the time if he didn't want me near him.

"What do you think?" he asks.

"It looks awesome. My mom would have a heart attack."

"It'd probably help that frigid bitch," he sighs out.

"I heard that."

"Oh, no. I was trying _so_ hard to make sure something _so_ hurtful never entered your ears about that bitchy cu-"

"Craig."

"Why does everyone hate that word? I, personally, think it has a nice ring to it."

"I have nothing against you saying cunt. But you're talking about my mom."

"So?"

"It's my _mom_."

"I don't understand what you're getting at."

I sigh. "It's just… she's my mom. I have no choice but to love her."

"Just because she pushed you out doesn't automatically mean you're forever in debt to her." Sometimes the fact that Craig's a total schizoid is the most irksome thing on the face of the earth, and I have a paranoid idiot thing living in my head. **Hey! **Shut up, no one cares. He honestly has no grasp on obligation or… lots of other situations where he doesn't know what to do, at which time I scream at him there's nothing left for me to tell you.

Mostly. Obviously.

He feels shit as black and white. He sees things as black and white. Either it's bad or it's good. It's either annoying or funny. It's either worth his time or a complete waste of space. He either likes it or he hates it with a burning passion. There is no middle ground. Anyone who feels differently is an idiot.

It's really not fun at all to argue with him, or to try to make him see the light.

"Craig, when you tell me that the car I see barreling towards us _Final Destination_-style is a hallucination and I'm full of shit, I believe you. You're just going to have to believe me when I say right now, you're full of shit." He opens his mouth to argue, but I cut him off. "Okay, maybe you're not _completely_ full of shit, but you don't get it, will _never_ get it, so stop trying to act like you have this all figured out. It's impossible for you understand this, because you don't understand what's going on with this… _shit_. Just this once, you're going to have to trust me, okay?"

We stand there, staring at each other through the mirror. There was something brewing in his eyes, something intense, but I can't put my finger on it. His eyelashes are surprisingly long. He has really pretty eyes. Those eyes that are reflecting this _thing_ that I can't quite name -**murderous ****intent-**but it's strong and steady and growing and could it be _sad?_

He turns his head before I can investigate further and starts fidgeting with my new earrings. "Ow," I announce, even though it didn't really hurt.

"I forgot to put the backs on down there," he says. I feel the backs slide into place, but his hands don't leave right away. Then he starts talking again, only softer. The only reason I could hear him is because his head is right by my ear. "I don't think you really love her. I think you just feel obligated to her. You used to love her, for sure, and you have a massive, good history with her. How could you not? And because you don't hate her, you figure you must love her. I just… I don't know. I don't believe you love her. I don't see how that's possible." He pauses and tucks his head into the crook of my neck. Then he continued, sounding downright _miserable_, of all things.

"Or maybe you do. Like you said, I don' t get it."

… …

Since we couldn't find anyone on Google telling us _not_ to, we pierced my ears three more times. Three in one ear and two in the other, total.

_**Fucking **_**idiots.**

"I need to get ready for work." Freaking Saturday shifts. I do not approve.

"Do you think your boss will approve of your new accessories?" he asks from the couch. After way too goddamn long, Craig seems to have finally bonded with the couch.

"Yeah, she won't care. Her daughter has had her nose pierced since, like, sixth grade." Damn, Roxie's probably back for winter break… huzzah? Roxie and us were kind of friends in high school… kind of. We could have been if I'd tried harder or whatever. And she's a little obnoxious. Not _bad_, per say, but she wouldn't be my first pick as a BFF. On the other hand, she was the only one who didn't really mind being around the freak (enjoyed it, actually, ) and if I had been completely alone all those years I would have blown my brains out.

**No way are you that flexible.**

With a _gun_, you fool. But if I could do it myself I'd probably never leave the house, but I can't so here's where Craig comes in.

Work. Right.

Ten minutes into my pre-work run (in which I go around the apartment ten times making sure I haven't forgotten anything necessary for my survival in the next eight hours,) Craig gets bored and decides to interrupt my rendition of _Insane_ (of the Eminem variety.)

"You know, I think we could market you as a rapper. We would call you Lil' Whitie and you would have to shank a few bitches to get some street cred, but I think this could work out." He says, draping himself over me.

Like I said- as of late, he's a clingy motherfucker. Not that I particularly mind or plan on telling him about my observations.

"You're weird. Go away." He kisses me.

"I don't want to."

… …

**AN 2.0: **... Meh. Reviews, please!


	25. Chapter 25

**AN:** I changed my pen name, if you didn't notice. And oh my God, high school is kicking my ass and I'm not even all the way in yet. Guess that's what I get for being ambitious, eh? As for the contest- first person to call dibs wins. Craig's mind stars in this little number.

… … **Unexpected**

You know, I'd never really worried about being hurt by someone. Not physically nor mentally. More dismissive-avoidant attachment instead of fearful-avoidant attachment. I figured that I'd never let anyone in to begin with, and when I did everything would just be fine and dandy.

But then Tweek, fucking bullheaded Tweek, proves me wrong. That little speech in the bathroom the other day had just…

It was unpleasant. I can't say it felt like he'd stabbed me through the heart with a giant double-edged sword, but most definitely with a needle.

And even a prick proves that it's possible that he _could,_ possibly hurt me in way that'd leave me in a sniveling, crying mass on the floor with a shattered, black hole for a heart that I have mocked so many times before.. He could die or dump me or keep acting like his mom's anyone he should give a crap about over me or he could just be a prick and it'd hurt.

It's a little unsettling, to say the least.

It made me want to run for my fucking life.

I mean… shit. I do not deal with emotional pain. Even the saying the words make me feel like a gaping pussy. I do not approve of being emotional. And here I am, still slightly shaken from that days later.

_Pathetic._

It's not the first time I've felt bad because of Tweek, but he hadn't been the direct cause before. Jesus.

If someone with congenital analgesia suddenly started feeling pain, they'd probably cry on the floor for hours the first time they stubbed their toe. It's like that.

It's not like I'm actively not feeling emotions. I don't miss them. I never get the feeling that there's something, some emotion, missing in the equation that is me. I feel what I feel, and that's normal for me. I've never particularly _worried_ about feeling other shit.

That is, until Tweek started noticing the missing parts and started pointing them out, driving sticks into it, and pointed them out as a weakness. No one likes having their survival instincts questioned. Now I catch myself wondering about what people are feeling right now, and why they're feeling that way, and what happened made them feel that way, and what is Tweek feeling right now-

I'm asking myself a lot of questions (mainly the last one) I'll never know the answer to, mainly because either I don't really give a fuck or the person (Tweek) doesn't think I give a fuck, and that me asking him is just like me trying to dissect a frog to see how it croaks.

But whatever. It doesn't particularly worry me. It's only Tweek, after all.

… …

When I enter the apartment, a foreign noise entered my ears.

Well, not foreign. Just…

"Are you playing Staind on the piano?" I ask Tweek. He freezes and looks up from his piano. The music stops.

"On the keyboard, technically." I roll my eyes as I fell onto the couch next to him. He glances at me a few times, before returning to playing. He stops every couple of seconds, apparently hearing some flaw, continuing on once he fixed the wrong note. Even with the pauses it was easy to tell what song it was. Bizarrely easy (_Outside._)

You know, there's a reason I never did very well in English during high school. I didn't see or understand imagery or metaphors or any other fancy plays on words. I take things at face value. I don't think it's necessary to say anything other than Jack is Sad. I didn't regret not being able to describe things complexly, never worried about how to explain how important or pretty or sad something was until I heard Tweek play.

Because it's beautiful. Powerful. A million other things.

And not just the music, either, watching him is so…

Words. Words words words words words words words.

He's in the middle of a Black Sabbath song (_the_ Black Sabbath song, you know the one,) when he falls over into my lap. "My fingers hurt. I've been playing all day." I kiss his cheek and rearrange us so that I'm laying down, him tucked into my side and half on top of me.

There's something strangely reassuring about Tweek's weight pressing on me. One hand finds itself in his hair and the other under his shirt, scratching and massaging his back.

He purrs, because that's the Tweek way.

"You're really kinda awesome at that," I tell him. He grunts an affirmative, I assume.

He rolls further on top of me and starts rocking. Not humping, because that's a different thing (not that my dick can tell the difference, but my dick's an idiot.) Rocking means he's thinking about something. I remain silent.

He sighs heavily. "Craig?"

"Huh?"

"W-W-when are… I mean, do you, like,… ehhh… never mind," he stuttered out, blush growing stronger as he tried to force out whatever it is that he's trying to say. He dives back into his hiding spot. My hand, which I hadn't removed from his shirt, moved to his front and pinched roughly where I knew his nips were. He squeals and jerks upwards, looking down at me with a so… startled… look. I continue thumbing him.

"What was it you were trying to say?" I ask. He looks down, chewing on his lip.

"So, er, I was thinking about-" I move my other hand up to join the other. "Ah…" He calls silent again, eyes closed and leaning onto my hands. I pinch him again. He grunts and his eyes shoot open. "Doyouwanttofuckme?"

"Ahh." My hands freeze. "You're right, 'fuck' really is a crude word in this circumstance."

"I mean, I get it if you don't-"

"No, don't even start that shit. You know I _want_ to, it's just…" I don't want to fuck this up.

He scoffs. "You make me feel like a bad boyfriend who won't put out."

"It doesn't make you a bad boyfriend."

"But I don't-"

"Can't."

"I _could_ have-"

"But it wouldn't have been a good idea."

"But-"

"_Nothing. _Listen, we moved kind of fast before, but no one got hurt and _golly_, was it amazing," I drawl, trying to lessen the rapidly growing tension. "This time, though, you had-slash-_have_ actual problems _against_ quick, thoughtless fucking. Not that that's a _bad_ thing," I add hastily at his flinch. "Just… it could go really, really wrong if you aren't ready or whatever."

"I _am_ ready."

"Are you sure?"

"_Yes_."

"Well, how do you want to do it?"

"Huh?"

"Like doggy, missionary,… I was thinking you should probably ride me for the first time."

"Lazy asshole," he said, not looking directly at me. I could still see his whole face growing red.

"You'd have more control."

"Maybe I don't want to be in control," he says huffily. I remove one hand from his shirt and move his head so I can look into his eyes. There were a million and ten things flowing through them, but the main one I could pin down was _insecure_. I pull him down for a soft kiss.

"I'm not saying I'll just throw to the sharks and rank you on your performance."

"That is not even funny." I kiss him again in his distress.

"I'll help you. It'll be fine… _if_ we do it right."

He sighs out an almost laugh. "You're acting like I'm some sort of virgin." I feel my hands tighten on his neck and side.

"Because you _are_."

He scoffs. "I've had a guys prick in me before. Not a virgin." He eyes darken and he gets an uneasy air.

"Getting raped doesn't fucking count."

He grinds his teeth once before saying, "Personally, it kind of fucking counts."

I roll over on him, pressing down, for I have found that he becomes rather relaxed after being smothered and _that_ is not the kind of argument I want to get into. "I will settle with mostly virgin-esque," Tweek says.

"Fine," I sigh.

… …

AN 2.0: Tweek has the awesome piano skillz equivalent to Vika. YouTube her as "vkgoeswild," for she is amazing.

I love me some ellipses and the phrase "or whatever." And there may be… le (kinda) smut next chapter *headdesk* I am not a fan of the writing of the smut (as in I don't like personally writing it because I suck at it- hella awkward) but I feel it is necessary. Anybody want to help me? XP Anyhoo, review, please!


	26. Chapter 26

**AN: **Oh my God, I suck. I haven't updated in forever. I blame the plot bunnies. They were being all, "HAHA, BITCH, YOU'RE GONNA BE WRITING A WHOLE GODDAMN CHAPTER OF SMUT! MWUAHAHAHAHA!" … *hisses violently* I ignored them, praying that they'd change their minds. And one month later… They're stubborn assholes. Hence- a chapter of mostly meh-tastic smutt. I accepted that. I nutted up and… spent three days drawing a zombie (named Zommie,) BUT NOW… Tweek's POV.

(The title's also a song.)

… …

**Chapter Twenty-Six **

**Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo **

The fall onto the bed knocks the breath out of me, and Craig's mouth latched onto my neck is not helping with the whole breathing thing. I feel like I'm on fire, and Craig feels just as warm on top of me, pinning me.

My mind is jumbled, twisted together like a million little knots twisting together into a mess.

Craig's pulling up my shirt, biting and sucking on anything he can reach at this moment. My mind keeps melting, forming little puddles of brain goo at the bottom of my skull.

They haven't left, they're not remaining silent. They weren't prepared. They're being so loud and all-consuming. It's eating at my sense, and I can't help but start be listen to them.

**Connar, whore, Connar…**

It's Craig, I can trust Crai-

**No, no, no. Fucking Connar. Are you going to let this happen to you again?**

I didn't-

Craig's working on my pants.

**Stop him.**

He- **Hurts-**I trust- **Doesn't deserve- **but- **Rapist- **No, he's- _**Connar- **_I- **Will burn again- **I-

**Connar Connar Connar Connar Gonna Hurt Connar, it's Connar, leave, get up, run away Connar Whore Connar Connar Push-**

It's ringing in my ears and echoing in my head, blurring my eyes. My partial nudity comes to my attention, as does the extra person _whothefuck, _and I'm stuck and terrified, blind and my heart is racing and my mind is about to explode and it's burst out of my mouth and ears and nose and eye sockets in a gory grey and bloody mess. My bones are about to break and my muscles might snap. This extra person is here, too, any why is that? What do they want? **Everything.**

They're not helping **so** they're hurting **so** they're evil **so** they're bad** so** they're from hell **but** it's here **so** they're a demon **and** they want something from me **but** what do I know **so** maybe I know something **so** it's a bounty hunter demon **so** they're looking for other demons **but** I don't know any other demons **but** they need to know or they'll hurt me **so** they're sadistic **but** I want to help them **so** does that make me masochistic, **but **I don't, I want them to leave and they want something, someone, to drag back to hell **but** who deserves that **and** I know who does-

"C-Connar," a voice croaks, but was it my voice I don't know, came from me, maybe, but it sounds wrong so I'm the demon, that's so wrong, I want it out but how can that be maybe it's contagious…

My mind keeps churning, burning, tearing its way through all the reality it can get its claws on, which is a fairly small amount, considering how long it takes to get through one thing. My mind's velocity and all that.

After awhile, I feel it, whoever, is back. And they're on me, tearing off my jaw, Jesus, and something's being shoved down my throat. Oh, God, what is that- **Demon cum- **_oh my fucking God-_

Then it's naptime for Tweekie.

And who dares say I have disorganized, illogical thoughts?

… …

I feel so weird when I wake up. My head is swimming, I feel achy all over, and I have that paralyzed feeling one gets when they wake up too goddamn early but are still unable to move.

I look over my shoulder. Craig's not there. His side was still a little warm, though, so I'm not really worried. I flop back down. I partially go back to sleep. Hunger and the need to brush my teeth eventually drives me up.

I take my meds, too.

I feel slow today. I can barely walk.

"Jeeeeesus," I moan at Craig when he comes into my view. "So tired." I sit on the counter next to Craig. His shoulder is just the right height for a pillow. He reaches up to pet my head, and I respectively respond by falling asleep again.

Two cups of coffee, an effort-free trip to the couch (Craig carried me) and twenty minutes of staring at the wall and/or Craig's face. Or more specifically, the bottom of his jaw, speaking my head's in his lap and all.

I try to remember what exactly happened last night. Most of it had just blurred into static, but I had the feeling it wasn't very good. Craig has his grumpy, tense look that he gets whenever he's reminded I tend to be a wee bit crazy.

I reach up and run my fingers through Craig's (surprisingly soft) hair. He glances down at me muscle-spasms/smiles at me. I pat his cheek in acknowledgement. "'M sorry about last night."

He snorts. "Do you even remember anything?"

"Er… not so much. But you look pissy-" Another snort, "so I assume something did, for which I apologize." Grunt. Sigh on my part. "I didn't take all my meds that afternoon," I add. "So whatever it was, it was my fault."

Following actions occur: a sigh, shaken head, bitten lip, glance down, glance around, groan, another shaken head, shift, slapped for shifting without warning, and then-

"I saw you were tripping. We were fucking-"

"I _wish_ we were fucking."

"But I stopped, because… well, yeah." Broken eye contact. "You said Connar's name."

I flinch.

"Well, that's unpleasant for both parties," I mutter. After briefly trying to remember the context, I decide that it's probably not worth it.

"Hmn. I gave you that… Per-something, the stuff you told me 'relaxed' you," he starts, and then continues to grumble on, all I got out of it was "okay."

"'S fine. Those things are knock-out pills at their roots." Then we go silent, which leads to Craig's favorite hobby- mocking the mentally challenged. The source of the idiots today: _The Price is Right_. Craig, of course, turns into an accountant/professional price-guesser/psychic when _The Price is Right _is involved.

And then the natural course demands we start making out forty-three minutes and six seconds later. Naturally.

He maneuvers himself onto his back (his natural position) with me straddling him (my natural position) his tongue shoved into my mouth and his hand fisting my hair. His other hand is under my shirt, and his fingers are fucking _freezing_, but hell if I don't love how they push and pull and grab at me. Before long we're both unconsciously grinding against each other, and he moves his lips away from mine to suck and nibble and _bite_ (oh, how I love when he bites)at my neck. Whines that are definitely _not_ mine fill the air, getting louder as he pulls me closer and gnaws at my neck like he's trying to freaking _eat_ me-

I didn't really notice the motion of his hand until after it's pulled down my pants and wandered underneath my boxers, squeezing tightly before going lower and deeper, _pressing-_

"_Nnngh_," I hiss, pulling his head away from my neck via hair causing a nice scrape that almost make me want to let him have his way. "Y-y-you're gonna need some lube for that," I choke out. I look down at Craig, who looks as composed as ever (if not a little flushed) despite his little… er, _massage._

"I know," he responded casually as he pressed a little harder, making me squeal and jerk my hips near-violently forward. My head hits his chest and I heave heavily. "Hey, cutie, look at me." And I look up, possibly planning on biting him for calling me something so _atrocious, _but a small bottle in his hand catches my eye.

"Where the _fuuuuuuuuuuuuck,_" I groan as one of his fingers pushes into me. My whole body feels like it's on fire, and Craig is definitely not helping with the smirking and the biting and the _fuck._

I don't really notice him pulling off my shirt because I am pretty much gone (he's really good with his hands) but I notice when he pulls my head up to look at him via _my hair_- doesn't matter that I kind of like it, he doesn't know that- and freaking _croons_ at me, "You're so pretty like this."

I don't even bother with a semi-witty retort, and instead growl at him and try to get my arms in working order so that I can do _something_ because I cannot not _stand _him being all suave while I'm a panting mess sprawled on top of him, ready to take whatever he has to give me… I have some pride I'd like to keep, thank you very much.

He seems to notice my attempt at mobilization, and rolls us (how I got to be putty in his capable hands, I do not know) over so that I can barely move.

**DO NOT FUCKING APPROVE.**

… It's not too bad.

"_So_ pretty," he sighs as he presses kisses against my jaw. He pushes in another finger, too. There's a twinge of discomfort, but he makes me forget about it fast.

"Shut up," I whine, bucking against him helplessly. A groan is silenced by a kiss, and Craig gives my hair one last tug before letting go. His stubby nails scratch their way lower, making me shiver.

**Masochist.**

Tch, like Craig would ever really hurt me. Besides, everyone likes some scratches…

Craig's hand stops at my hip, and it holds me still, ceasing most of my motions and making me twitch. He grinds against me hard, and I practically sob.

His fingers suddenly curve and push, and you know what? _Fuck_ my pride. It's not like he has any friends to brag at.

"Ah, God," I yell into his neck. My face feels tight and hot… of course, _all_ of me feels tight and hot. "Jesus Christ. I, ah… n-need, mhph, to, _Jesus_! Get me out of th-these!" I say while trying to kick off my pants. He lets go of me long enough to pull said pants down an acceptable amount and whip his own dick out. Impressive, speaking he did all that one handed in roughly seven seconds, all while continuing to melt my brain via ass.

I swear to God, I nearly died because he's a fucking master and somehow manages to keep it up on both ends and like hell could I do anything but whimper and moan- er, growl and snarl into Craig's ear or press my face into his neck, breathing him in.

"God, Craig… I'm gonna-ah! Gonna…" I give up talking at take up wheezing, and my dick is _throbbing_ and-

"Tweek, look at me." I just moan because he set me up in a do-nothing situation, and like hell am I moving _now_ (like I could anyway…) and oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.

He digs in harshly, making me yelp. My head snaps up, and I feel myself flush more, if that's even possible, at Craig's stare because the fucker never loses composure, he just gets more intense and hot and powerful and that's for _me_…

White-out.

Not long after Craig follows with a nice, manly groan. Fuck him. I'm fairly sure I squealed.

I continue to not move as he cleans us off with one of the rags we've gotten into the habit of leaving near horizontal surfaces. "Not bad," I sigh once he's settled down and I've regained some power over my vocal chords.

"No bad? I saw your face. You fucking loved it." And then he went there. "… You're such a bottom bitch."

I promptly tackle him off the couch. There's Craig for you, ruiner of afterglows. Why he enjoys pissing me off, I do not know. I pull a blanket over myself, too lazy to fix my clothes and/or storm off.

"Ow…" he groans.

"Fuck off," I respond. Once I sense him behind me, I swing back a slap.

"Ow! God _damn_ it."

"Fuck. Off." He sighs." Oh, don't sigh at me. Like I fucking need you calling me a girl."

"I didn't call you a girl, I called you a-"

"You say it again, I will tear off your dick, shove it up your own ass, and sew it there." Which may be a little drastic, but I've been sitting on that for awhile and felt the need to get that threat out there.

"The assumption that all females are as…" I ready my slapping hand as he searches for a word that will is not slap-worthy, "… _Passive_ as you… occasionally… are is incorrect. Which makes you sexist and the asshole in this situation. Ha ha."

I raise my eyebrows at him. "Did you just call me submissive?"

"… Just a _tiny_ bit." I slap him, but not as hard as I was originally. "Only sexually though, obviously," he says with a roll of the eyes.**Slap him again.** I do. "Will you stop doing that?"

"Sorry." I point at my head. "They're telling me to." He rolls his eyes again and hops onto the couch. I lean against him.

What? He's warm.

**SOMETIME LATER…**

"I was just kidding you earlier. I knew you were just drunk of the delicious glory at that is man meat."

I head butt him.

… …

I'm half sprawled across the bed, half sitting in Craig's lap. It's not a particularly comfortable position, but it's not horrible either. I shiver as the cold air seeps into my skin… or technically speaking, the warmth drains out of me. All my clothes are on the floor, joining most of Craig's. He still has his boxers on, which is _totally_ not fair… but no one can really complain about a mostly naked Craig. It is a sight to behold.

His hands manage to work some heat back into me. _Some._ Fucking prude.

I jerk at the feel of his hands on my ribs, not that I'm ticklish or anything. Nope. Not even a little bit. There's a hint of a smirk on Craig's face when I glance up at his face. His eyes are otherwise focused, on where I'm not sure. My hips maybe, but I watch his eyes continue to move I figure it's probably just my general sexy, sexy body.

His hands press a harder, start grabbing and groping, wandering to more _sensitive_ areas, if you catch my drift.

This, of course, is when he decides that eye contact is necessary. Making sure I'm not freaking out and whatnot.

That's one reason he's going slow. For me to get used to or _really_ ready it, which is fairly ridiculous because I am so ready that they're barely complaining.

In reality it's more for him than it is for me. He's convincing himself I won't freak out again, that I really am capable of being with him, that _he's _capable of being with me… all that jazz.

Of course, petting can only go on so long before it evolves into full-on groping, so that can only go on for so long before his willpower breaks and we're rolling together, tugging and rubbing until we're _gone._

Craig's hand unclenches from my hair, rolling to his side. I follow pursuit. His chest may not be the most comfortable of pillows, but I've never been a fan of pillows, and he smells really good. It also puts me in easy holding distance.

… …

Craig grinds himself in me, breathing harshly into my ear. One hand was pressed firmly into my shoulder, and the other was to his side supporting it. I rest my head on it.

Technically, he's not really _in_ me, but he's pretty damn close. It doesn't leave much to the imagination, he's right where he _could_ be. The thought that he could pause at any moment, change angles and pressure, and then he'd be really fucking me makes me jolt and my stomach clench. I have yet to decide if it was a good feeling or not.

I try to shift a bit, but his hand is firm. Awhile ago that hand was petting, comforting, but it had stopped and settled. The brain had another goal in mind now.

"Craig," I sigh, and a few moments later there's a groan and splashes of wetness hits the small of my back.

He's still for a minute before moaning out, "Roll over."

I do as he said and his head goes down. Speaking that Craig is not a massive tease nor a massive fan of blowjobs, or at least giving them- **that's totally lame.** Oh, fuck you. It's not like he withholds them. **… still lame.** ANYWAY, it doesn't take him long to finish the job.

I press myself against him when he comes back off, not letting go even as he moved to grab the blankets. In a moment of generosity I say, "You're awesome."

"Yeah, I do have some wicked skills…"

"Shut up, your voice ruins it," I mutter, kissing his cheek. He laughs.

… …

For a reason beyond my comprehension, Craig insists on buying raspberry lube. I do not know why. Maybe just because he _can_.

I asked him one day, and he replied, "I dunno, but I bet your ass is _delicious _right now." I think, at first, he just tested out his theory to irk me.

I screamed.

It apparently startled him, because he jumped and nearly pushed me over. I was still in a state of shock. Did he just…? Really? Damn… **oh, the **_**diseases**_**…**

Craig came to the conclusion that because he did nothing to hurt me, that must have been a very strong signal from the other side of the spectrum. He went back at it before I can fully recover from the shock.

I came in a ridiculously short amount of time.

When he released me, and I just sort of… tipped over. My legs gave out. I could feel Craig's eyes digging into me, and it registered somewhere that he was totally jerking off, but I couldn't move.

An unknown amount of time later, he reappeared. Smirking. Smirky bastard. I glared weakly at him. "So you don't like blowjobs but you don't mind _that_?" I ask. "You're weird."

"Ah, well, studies showed you liked that fairly well, too."

"You're _weird._"

… …

What Craig and I are about to do didn't really hit me until he grabs the lube again because Jesus Christ, he is lubing up his _dick_ that is going up _my ass._ Don't get me wrong, I really want this, but fucking hell… I can't help but think that it may kill me.

I lean up against the wall, breathing heavily. Craig edges closer. I can't really focus on any one aspect of him, my gaze twitching away every couple of seconds. His hands are suddenly under my thighs and he lifts me up. He settles me down in his lap. I hesitantly look up into his eyes, and I swear to God, I've never seen him look so… serious, I suppose. He leans forward, resting his forehead on mine for a moment before pressing his lips to mine. It starts slowly and carefully, and if I dare say it _sweet._

I try to ignore his shuffling of us, the slight shifts and lifts.

I can't ignore the feeling of him starting to press into me.

I gasp and break off the kiss, returning to the comfort of my wall. There's a distinctive burning sensation that I'm not exactly unfamiliar with, but it's a lot more acute. Craig's hands are occupied with holding me up and making sure I don't slide down too fast. It keeps burning and suddenly I'm not too fond of this position. Too impersonal, Craig's too far and it's just-

"Craig, stop," I whisper. He freezes, looking up at me with panicked eyes. His jaw was His hands tighten on my thighs. I figure that he's probably enjoying this a lot more than I am right now. "Gimme a minute," I say. He just nods.

I push myself off the wall, hissing at the pain that suddenly radiates up. Eventually I settle myself on Craig's lap. His hands move up and start rubbing and scratching lightly at my back and neck. One hand goes, surprisingly enough, to my hair but, also surprisingly, no pulling is involved. It's more petting than anything else.

I let myself sink the rest of the way down.

"Oh, shit," I hiss, perfectly prepared to start bitching, but Craig seems to sense this and bites at my lip. "Ah-" and his tongue finds mine. I momentarily forget that I'm impaled.

That is, until he starts moving, and _God_, it burns. Not as bad as _last_ time, I suppose, so that's a good thing.

Craig keeps kissing and petting, and eventually the pain eases and there's the hint of pleasure. "Ok?" Craig asks after a particularly loud moan escapes me.

"F-fine. Better," I hiss out. My brain's starting to shut down, which is unacceptable because it's confusing right now. It hurts, but it's good, too,

and it's too fucking close but not close enough and _uuurrrggg… _

My legs give out after awhile, and my whole body is boneless. Craig tries to keep me up, but we're both too slick in sweat. He falls backwards and I follow him without comment. I feel almost numb, but obviously I'm not because my dick is as hard as hell (I don't remember that happening again.) I try to hold myself up to assist in the process, but I can barely manage. My arms tremble from the effort. Craig's still driving into me, but I can tell that he's not going nearly as hard as he wants or is capable of.

I decide to listen to Craig's growling and swearing, which is really quite fascinating. It's a nice feeling, having Craig's arms wrapped around me and being pressed into his burning body, and him pressing into me really isn't feeling so bad…

I could get used to this.

I was just figuring I could really get used to this when Craig suddenly tightens and _woah_, shit, there _he_ is.

I hiss at the burn when Craig pulls out. Craig reaches down and palms me, and it only takes a few jerks for me to come… which just about killed me, by the way.

Not to mention the leaking… "Raaggghh, grab me the towel!" He moves sluggishly, and ends up just throwing a shirt of his at me. Close enough. He stays sprawled across the bed. I move to join him with as little motion as possible.

It's a little too quiet for a moment, and I wait for Craig's post-sex check-in.

Two minutes later we're snoring.

Of course, we wake up some time later freezing, which gave Craig the opportunity to be a gentleman as we fought over the covers. "Hey, Tweek."

"What?"

"… You okay?"

"Awesome."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

"_Tweek._"

"Craig, look at me." He does. I'm resting on him much like how one imagines a cat does. "I need this. I want this." I kiss him again, lightly. "And practice makes perfect."

"So… there will be practice?"

"Yeah."

"… Can we sleep first?"

"Well, yeah, no shit."

I wait awhile, well after I feel Craig's breath even out and slow down. "You make me feel safe."

... **...**

**AN 2.0: **... *hides* Reviews, please? And massive thanks to NightingaleLost for being awesome and catching a million more typos 'n' shit than I did... SO GO READ HER STUFF XD


	27. Chapter 27

**AN:** Ohmigod, I _suck._ Holy shit. It's been way too long. Fo shizzeth, people. I didn't even realize how long it has been until, like, a month after the last update… I had no idea. I seriously have no excuses for the block of time except for ignorance. And then school started and my need to sleep took over and BAH. And this chapter ended up so damn loooong (roughly 5x longer than normal)… and they wouldn't stop screwing around, damn it!

Whatever. Excuses. Craig's POV.

… …

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

**Another Chapter I Choose Not To Name**

Is it bad that I expected a bitchy Tweek when I woke up? Because I really, truly did. I expected to be hearing how sore his ass is and how evil I am and the demand that I make him pancakes.

Instead I get these strange blissed out smiles and a Tweek that practically never removes himself from my side. He's all hugs and smiles and kisses and… have I mentioned how smiley he is now? It's a little disturbing.

But nice. I made him pancakes the next morning anyway.

… …

Five o'clock in the morning. I'm staring at the ceiling while I should be asleep for at least another hour. I've considered actually getting up, but Tweek's draped over half of me, and moving would equal a woken up Tweek, who's grouchy enough when he _needs_ to be woken up. I've resorted to staring and petting the pieces of Tweek's hair that's sticking out from underneath the blanket.

Right now would be the perfect time for some deep thinking, but instead my mind's focused on trying to remember if's it faith or space in, "Reach out and touch [word]!" in _Personal Jesus. _I had honestly thought it was space for an embarrassingly long time. My mind still recognizes it as space, even if there is a part of me that knows it's faith (which I should have known, with the whole Jesus thing) but most of me refuses to accept that I was wrong for so long. Tweek is completely unhelpful. He states that that part of the song translates into nothing but noise in his brain. This is a fairly common occurrence for him. There's a song on the radio, he likes it, but doesn't stand a chance to remember the lyrics for Google because he can't really understand the words. He can recognize them as words, but… I've been voted as the official lyric rememberer. And then the downloader because Tweek can never remember their existence, too.

I'd prefer it to be space, either way. It gives the song a more, er, _universal._ More fantasy and massive and untouchable. It adds another layer to the song. But I didn't write the song and I didn't perform it and I have no intentions of changing-

Tweek somehow manages to curl himself closer to me, and his breath tickles my neck.

Reach out and touch faith.

… …

Tweek did, in fact, wake up earlier than usual. He refused to stay in bed, but I catch him in the shower.

_Excellent_ acoustics.

When we're both panting and recovering afterwards, I turn my head to meet his eyes in the mirror. I smirk at him, and he blushes and looks away.

… …

_Click. Click. Click…_

"What're you doing?" Tweek asks as he comes downstairs.

"Watching porn." Or at least trying to. "Your selection sucks balls… a lot, actually. There's some teabagging, too, I believe."

Tweek snorts and comes to flop down next to me. He rests his head on my shoulder as I keep searching and searching and searching… So much porn, so much shit.

Eventually he huffs and grabs the laptop from me. "Why are you such a picky bastard?"

"Psh, says the eighteen year old virgin. 'Oh _noooooo_, I am much too good for _that _dick…'" I drawl.

Tweek scrunches his nose in that slightly pretentious way of his and flips me off. "I was _nineteen_, actually, which is a perfect age. Not all of us are whores, Craig."

… huh.

I don't really have time to think about that before Tweek drops the laptop down in front of us with a, "Here, you'll like this," and his fingers are on my zipper and, fuck it, other thoughts can wait.

… …

Tweek's wearing one of his own shirts for once, so when he reaches up to get a bowl from the cupboard the back of his shirt rides up to reveal a patch of Elmer pale skin.

At first I'd only stored the sharp, pointy knives up out of reach of the short and psychotic one, but then I decided to also store the bowls up there. I find it very amusing to watch him struggle to just get his very fingertips onto the edge of something every normal sized person could easily reach. Normal sized people such as myself. It brings me greater joy when he has to come and ask me to get the bowls down for his short ass.

I've considered making him beg for help, but he uses up all his begging minutes elsewhere, and would not tolerate such a domestic nicety.

And yes, it needs to be bowls. Anything else would be left to collect dust. Only bowls satisfy his hunger. The three main food groups in Tweek's mind- cereal, ice cream, and cookie dough- are all made and/or eaten out of bowls, and anything else would be nothing short of sacrilegious. Hence why he spends fifteen minutes attempting to stretch himself up a few more inches for reasons other than my entertainment.

But right now that patch is calling, and my fingers on it before I even make the conscious decision to do so. It's more of a tickle than anything else, too light, so it doesn't surprise me when Tweek reaches back to slap them away. And then nearly topples over. He is what one may call "clumsy." I catch him and set him straight, but one hand remains firm on his hip and the other burrows under the edge of his jeans. He ignores me, but he still tightens up.

Tweek responds to sex and sex-like activities in one pattern- tightness, limpness, and apparent blackouts. All of which were fairly concerning at first, but I've grown to appreciate it.

I also appreciate how little I have to do to get him going. Of course, it's just as easy to piss him off and effectively blue ball myself. And it's harder when he's hungry. Nothing I can't handle.

"Craig, why do you have to put things up so high?" he whines. He quite possibly has the strangest whine ever. It's not so… annoying. More… cute? Quite strange. "_You_ can barely reach these, why're you doing this to meeee…"

Totally bizarre.

"I dunno," I say as I rest my cheek against his head, inhaling in his hair and apple smelling shampoo. "Maybe I forget I live with a pygmy-sized human." My hand goes up to trace the lines of a few ribs sticking out. I think they used to be worse. Apparently our ridiculously unhealthy diet's good for something.

Tweek jerks and squirms, letting out this strange giggle-snort. He stops stretching and twists himself around. He puts his arms around my neck, and I make the mistake of looking into his eyes.

If there is one thing to be said about Tweek's appearance, it'd be, "Oh my God, that is a tiny, tiny man." If there was a second it'd be about his eyes. They're insane on so many levels. They cast frantic, paranoid beams that make your skin prickle and you glance over your shoulder, just to make sure he's not seeing something you aren't (he is.) They can fucking boil and blister skin off when he's angry. They shimmer and glow in ways that demand he gets grabbed and kissed and fucked until those eyes can't see anymore. All these toxins radiate from the balls of ice that've been implanted into his skull.

Right now they're warm, cracking and shattering. Those shards float out and wiggle their way through my irises and into my brain.

He asks for a bowl. I get him the bowl. I suppose I should be glad he didn't ask me to start dancing around in a dress.

"Thank you," he says happily, and he smiles a little too brightly to be completely honest. He knows what he did. Asshole. "Grab me the Fruity Pebbles for me, too."

Again, I follow orders. How did this happen to me?

Tweek has ice cream in his hands when I look back at him. Apparently this is a day in which he mixes food groups. One time he made cookie dough balls stuffed with ice cream with Frosted Flakes crusted on them. They were delicious. How he made them remains a mystery.

When I depart, I depart with a captive cereal box and with a squealing, shivering boyfriend who I imagine has a nice hand print on his ass right now still in the kitchen.

… …

I am quite literally five seconds from falling asleep with Tweek hisses into my ear, "Craig."

Instead of doing the logical thing, which would have been ignoring him and going to sleep, my head rolls in his direction and I crack my eyes open. His eyes were too wide awake for this hour. They somehow manage to catch all the light in this room, leaving everywhere else pitch black. I really should have gone to sleep. He never has something good to say after two AM.

"I want french fries."

A sense of dread washes over me. My eyes roll. I roll back over. Even so, I find myself trying to remember where I put my keys.

I try to resist, I really do. I hold strong through the logic, and then the begging. I ignore his hands and the rush of heat that comes when he crawls on top of me. I ignore his breath on my lips.

I open my eyes and they meet his. They demand.

Ten minutes later I'm partially clothed and driving to McDonald's. Tweek, who apparently doesn't need sleep, has been chattering like we're up at a perfectly reasonable hour for a perfectly reasonable reason. Fucker.

I am too goddamn tired for driving. I would've hit someone's cat if the thing hadn't dodged my tires with a sudden burst of intelligence and if Tweek hadn't pulled at the wheel I would have hit the drunken asshole chasing after it. When we get there, I kick Tweek out to get his own damn fries.

I get out to nap on the hood.

When I wake up, Tweek still hasn't stopped talking, but now he has fries. And a milkshake.

After a minute. I've come to the conclusion he's talking to Them. This is not a new occurrence, but it's one he tries to hide from me. He figures it creeps me out. There's nothing he can really do about a little muttering and outbursts, those are uncontrollable. Conscious arguments, _conversations_ on the other hand… honestly, they're a little creepy. Some things he… they talk about and say are strange. To say the least.

My head starts to work again, and I start praying that wasn't the only sleep I'm getting tonight. Tweek stops talking the second he sees me move.

"Hey, Craig." His voice sounds serious.

"Yeah?"

"Panocha means pussy in Spanish, non?"

"Oui, I think so."

"You think panocho means boy pussy?"

I snort, hard. If I had been consuming something I would have choked and died. I'm not, though, so instead I'm laughing.

"I'm serious! If I were to say, like, 'Quiero tu cojer mi panocho,' do you think that translates? Or do I just sound like a jackass?"

I can barely breath, let alone respond.

"Jackass," I finally choke out. "_Total_ jackass. Your Spanish is horrible. Holy shit," I wheeze. Tweek continues to scoff and huff at me, but it doesn't take long for him to start laughing, too.

He leans back to join me on our new hood bed and burrows into the only warm spots, also known as my spot and me. Then we just lay there, staring at the stars. If only I was more poetic. Neither of us know constellations or see shooting stars or notice the crushing mass that is all of the universe. Just me, Tweek, a too-strong milkshake, and the lights from Mickey D's. Eventually we head home.

It was nice. I'm glad Tweek's here.

… …

I sometimes feel like my relationship with Tweek is some strange, massive case of entrapment. It's times when Tweek has stolen all the covers and is still warming his feet on my calves, when I'm dead tired at work the morning after a post-midnight french fry run, when he's glaring at me with those eyes that punch holes through my skull during arguments in which he refuses to back down or see logic… right after the methodically planning of his murder, I ask myself _why is he here to being with?_

How did this happen? Why did this happen? How the hell did this person get me to do these things? This isn't some _Lars and the Real Girl_ shit, I am living with a live, fleshy boyfriend… a bitchy, literally crazy, loud, needy- no, worse, _wanting_- human being. I elect to do this. It's not just for the second paycheck or the sex or for the extra help around because Jesus knows that bastard can't cook or clean. At the very least chooses not to most of the time.

How did this happen?

Every time I ask myself this question my mind replies," Just… Just _Tweek_." I don't get it. I suspect mind control.

This begs the question- how'd he enter my mind in the first place? No one gets into my mind without permission, and I don't give permission. But did I let Tweek it? Or did he already have a key from before?

The Tweek I have now is not the Tweek that had originally entered. That Tweek did not go around singing _Captain Jack_ on the top of his ill-prepared lungs and then give me a lap dance to _U Can't Touch This._ That Tweek was quiet and introverted. Distant enough not to annoy me off, interesting enough to keep me close. That Tweek was an enigma.

Not that this Tweek isn't… massively something, but he's not what I originally thought he was. I fell for that lie.

Of course, many epic romances start and are built on lies- _I'm sane, you don't look fat, I love you, too._ But maybe these lies aren't too bad, because maybe they're not too far from the truth and maybe they're necessary, to a point.

If Tweek had given me that lap dance when we had first me, he'd be six feet under and I wouldn't get the cookies he occasionally makes, or the extra bed warmer, or his quiet acceptance and understanding, or his magical power to absorb and diminish pressure (at least, my pressure, his remains boiling in his skull in surely unhealthy way).

Having Tweek around feels unnatural and unnecessary sometimes, but fuck, shitting indoors probably felt unnatural and unnecessary at first.

… …

I drop a shopping bag in front of Tweek's face. He jumps away before he realizes who it is. He rips off his headphones and eyes the brown bag. "You went to the store without me? Asshole," he says.

I snort. "Just open the damn bag," I respond before heading into the kitchen. When I return, plus one soda can, Tweek's staring at the cupcake like it's been poisoned.

"What'd you do?" he asks, slowly turning the cupcake to look for injection points. I roll my eyes and my attention goes to the TV, but Tweek's heat seemed to radiate off him.

I glance at him as he hesitantly takes a bite. "Happy belated birthday," I add before looking away again.

He freezes. I see him putting the cake thing down out of the corner of my eye before he launches himself at me and presses a kiss to my cheek. I push him off. "Tch," I huff. "Keep your happy ass cooties to yourself."

He latches himself back onto me and purrs into my neck. I don't bother pushing him off.

… …

I come to a halt when my eyes fall on Tweek. My cup pauses inches from my mouth. Tweek stares at me defensively.

"Why're you wearing a sassy gay scarf?" I ask. He rolls his eyes and starts pulling on his boots.

"Because your sassy gay mouth put _eight_ sassy gay hickeys on my sassy gay neck," he responds. He stops hopping around attempting to push his foot into his boot long enough to stare straight into my eyes, daring me to question him.

"Fair 'nough," I respond, and I hold the door for him as he jumps out into the room, ramming his shoulder into the wall directly opposite our door as hard as possible. I imagine it echoed pretty awesomely in there.

"Watch what the fuck you're doing, assholes!" screeches a truly horrid voice from within. I honestly can't tell if it was a man or a woman.

I slam my hand on the door. "Hey, watch your language around the lady!" I yell back, and Tweek rolls his eyes at me before we start barreling out of the building before whoever's in there can come out and shoot us with the shotgun we're _sure_ they possess.

"We should totally fuck in the hallway sometime," Tweek says as he climbs into the Death Trap and clings to my arm, which he apparently believes will be more effective than the seatbelt in the long run. Maybe he plans on using me as a human shield in the event of a crash. "Just to mess with them."

"Don't worry, Tweek, they can hear you perfectly fine from our bedroom."

… …

Tweek inhales harshly, and suddenly his nails and heels and chin are digging into me and his knees are squeezing me. I can't see his face, but I could picture his scrunched up face perfectly. Of course, all of this is standard procedure. It's the sudden, sharp cry that stopped me. Something about it…

"Tweek? You okay?" I ask carefully.

I feel his nod against my head.

"Are you sure? Cuz…" I cut off as I feel Tweek's finger join mine that'd been shoved harshly (too harshly?) into him not a minute before. He moans and arches away from me, and I finally get a good look at his face.

… _Holy fuck._

Holy fuck. I can't describe it properly. Go find your own twink to fuck and find out for yourself.

He spears himself with another finger not long after and _dear God_, does this dude moan. When his head starts to roll back my hand that isn't currently working on his ass reaches up to his head and pushes it forward, not letting that fucking magnificent sight out of my view. His eyes are barely open, and they are blind. His normally clear eyes are glazed over and staring off into a place that doesn't exist anywhere, not even in his head.

"Tweek," I sigh into his ear, biting lightly at it.

"Craig…" he responds dreamily, but it also snaps him into action. He yanks his fingers out and drags mine with him before leaning away from me to grab the lube. He jerks some onto my dick before climbing back on top of me.

"Are you sure that's enoooohhhhhhh," I groan as he slides down. Tweek's howl practically drowns it out. He starts to yank himself off, but it's too fast, too much friction, and he's going to fucking kill himself-

I hold him above me, which causes him to squirm and cry out. I push him down and his legs automatically wrap themselves around me.

I try to be careful, I really do, but Tweek does not make it easy. Fuck, I've never seen him this riled up, and there the fucker is screaming and crying and begging me to fuck him harder, and-

Tweek doesn't last long, and he makes me almost feel guilty for still going until I finish with all his whimpering.

Tweek lays there limply as I press lazy kisses against his shoulder, I'm fairly sure he falls asleep for a few, but it doesn't take long for him to twitch back awake. He starts squirming and I release him in anticipation for-

"Jesus, this is so icky. I'll be right back," he says before hopping to the bedroom.

I move closer to the already heated area of the bed, perfectly aware that Tweek will try to make me move again when he gets back. Not that he'll win. I roll some more and hit a wet spot.

I hiss and back away. I rip the blankets back, perfectly prepared to bitch at Tweek.

I'm greeted by a deep, dark, red stain.

"… shit." My skin chills.

When Tweek wobbles back in, I'm in the process of putting new sheets onto the bed. His return took longer than usual. Waiting to clot?

I throw a pillow back onto the bed a little too forcefully. "Stay there," I snap at Tweek when I see him trying to help out of the corner of my eye. I don't look at him.

When I do look, he'd curled up on top of a pile of dirty clothes. _Great, now he's gonna bleed all over those_, the dick in my head sneers.

I carefully carry him to the bed and cover him up. I don't end up sleeping much that night.

… …

My mind's still reeling.

That morning Tweek didn't act any different from normal. He was still all after-glow high and cheery after his coffee. He didn't act like he was talking to the guy that gave his old one a new one, damn near literally. You know, one of those normal reactions Tweek seems so adverse to.

He wasn't even limping worse than usual.

Is this not the first time that's happened, just the first time I caught it?

He should've done something. Slap me for going too hard. Kick me for letting him not slap me. _I_ should do something. Everyone knows masochists are poor judges… shit. Holy shit.

Did he like that? Jesus.

… doesn't fucking matter.

"Having boyfriend issues?" snickers the pimple-ass faced jackass of my new "shift buddy."

"Yeah, and I can show you what, exactly, if you would please bend over this counter," I reply absentmindedly. Pimple Ass Face stops laughing immediately and starts with the objections, and he _ain't no homo_, and I highly suspect he is. "Yeah, yeah," I say, interrupting his rant mid-Genesis or whatever bible thumpers quote from to prove us 'mos are _icky._ "Hold the fort. I am going to go… file." By that I mean I'm gonna go get drunk in Dick's office. And maybe break into Tweek's employee file to see when the fuck his stupid birthday is for next year.

… …

Tweek slinks into my lap and wraps his arms around my neck. "Hey," he purrs.

"Hi," I reply softly.

He nuzzles against my neck before attacking my mouth. Apparently the heat from last night hasn't quite leaked out yet. Last night. Jesus fucking Christ. He can probably still feel it. Very clearly, if all his squirming is anything to go by. What does he want me to do, make that worse? "Tweek," I sigh against his lips. His tongue dived into my mouth. I pull back, and he moves to my neck and my jaw… "We don't even have any lube."

"We'll make do," he murmurs. See, there he goes, attempted suicide by dick.

"Tweek," I say, prying him off me. His face had a confused look, his nose scrunching up repeatedly. "I'm not gonna fuck you."

His face immediately falls and he sinks onto the floor in front of me. Bet it hurt like a bitch, too. "Oh," he says. His twitching gets more agitated and jerky, and his shoulders were heaving. "Is… is this about… last night…" he trails off. Apparently he was quite aware of the damages.

"Yeah, pretty much," I say bitterly. Silence hangs in the air. When he finally jerks into motion it's a little startling, but not as startling as his apparently red eyes. Again my apparently alien arm springs out and grabs him, pulling him into my lap. The kiss is almost violent, but it's enough to get him all… happy again. When I pull away he's gasping and his whole face is red.

"It's not because I… I just… I don't want you hurt-"

He sits there stuttering for a minute, and I can see his indignant response boiling upwards.

"At least, not like that. I mean, shit, when was the last time you were able to sit properly?" Silence. "Exactly."

"But I like it. I like the feeling, like… that burn is you, all day, every day, and it's just _so_… " he pauses, possibly trying to find an adjective that he believes is safe. "It's nice, okay?" he stated. His voice started sounding defensive.

"You aren't going to say that when your colon's falling out."

He scoffs. I win the stare off. Tweek's too flustered. "FINE, whatever," he finally yells. "… This isn't, like, stopping _everything_, right?"

I grin and fist his fair. His eyes start to close automatically. His breathing picks up when I pull his head to one side, and it stops when my teeth dig into neck.

There is a bright side to having shitty teeth- you can do a lot of biting before you do any real damage.

I give the already appearing hickey a final lick before pulling away. Tweek doesn't make it easy. "Nah, I don't think so," I respond. "That is, unless your throat's sore, too."

He grunts and smiles before going down.

… …

I love Dick's Gifts. Guess what kind of store it is. Go ahead. Guess.

"Tits, glorious tiiiits, big, round and bouncy," Tweek hums behind me as we walk down the aisles. There are, indeed, many a rack in the front of the store. Further back, however, there were many, many dicks. These dicks bring great joy to Tweek. My wallet is starting to tingle, sensing a major spending binge.

Tweek continues to be amazed by the sheer amount of gay that has been just _waiting_ here for him, ten blocks away from his house, and he hadn't even known it existed. It's possible he thought I bootlegged the lube.

I allow Tweek to continue his frolicking through the gay and I follow behind him leisurely, making sure he doesn't break anything or steal something too obviously.

Tweek doesn't really focus on anything for very long, but every once in awhile I find myself thinking _owww,_ and then immediately after _would Tweek like that?_

Something catches my eye. I mean… how could it not? It's just soooo… black! "Becky, come look at this!" My immaturity rears its head, and I start giggling like a maniac. "You'll just love this."

Tweek jumps the aisle and says, "Why did you call me Becky? I don't ge-" his eyes fall on what I was looking at, which is quite possibly the largest dildo on the face of the earth. Like, the kind of thing for which fisting is _foreplay._ Oh my god, he'd die. Jesus, would he even be able to lift it easily?

I look over at Tweek. The utter look of horror on his face…

I double over. Tweek hits the ground with a thud. I'm not particularly worried, Tweek's told me he has a slight habit of passing out _("not fainting")_ when the voices get too strong. I imagine they did not like the thought of that thing in Tweek. It's a little strange how his twitching doesn't really stop when he's asleep.

So maybe not particularly worrying, but still sobering. I sigh, and look around again. We had landed in an… _interesting_ aisle. My eyes focus again.

A few minutes later Tweek's up and aware again. I had us hoisted up against the wall, because who the fuck knows the germs on that floor.

He elbows me. "I hate you," he states before grabbing my wallet out of my pocket and going to pay for the stockpile of shit he had found. I'll go through what, exactly, he'd found later. There are a lot of pointy, large objects in here. A lot to make him bleed.

I swallow thickly and go up to the counter, who is currently emptying my wallet. I nod at the cashier, who nods back. He's a chill dude. He may possibly be the Dick, but all I know for sure is that he has a decent taste of music, is a fan of the pot, and apparently stays at the cash register of Dick's Gifts all day, every day.

He looks up lazily from his magazine. He looks at Tweek for a minute as he babbles awkwardly, trying to act like he is not buying a stockpile of porn and things. Then his eyes slowly point at me. I grin at him, and shake my head a tiny _no._

After Tweek runs out, bag in hand, I slip another twenty across the counter.

… …

Tweek is a stubborn bastard. He is a stubborn bastard even against himself. His neck twitches a lot, one of his many twitches which he calls The Dive. He fights The Dive a lot, always countering one twitch of his own, his way of saying _I am in control of this._ He's not. The strength of The Dive comes and goes, but it doesn't matter what he does. It's more powerful than him.

Anyway. He counter twitches. But today, when his neck twitches he doesn't bother. Says his neck feels weird.

… …

Tweek groans when I pull away from him. "Dammit, Craig, finish," he whines. He glances over his shoulder the best he can, and I shake my head at him. "Craig-g, I-I swear to God, ah, I will never blo-"

"Shut up. I wanna see your face," I tell him as I turn him over. Tweek's hands don't leave his own dick as I rearrange him to fit my needs. His eyes don't leave me until I move a hand towards the area I'd abandoned, which is when they decide the back of his skull is a better suited location.

My, oh, my, what a pretty sight.

His face's a bright pink that spreads down his neck to disappear under his collar, but reappear from the bottom of his shirt which is hiked up past his nipples. Muscles twitch under my hand as I try to feel every goddamn piece of him I can get my claws in. Theoretically speaking. Mostly.

And this pink, twitching, hypersensitive bastard is _mine._

I grin at him, not that he sees, and press another finger into him.

"Ah, god, Craig," Tweek cries along with something I could best decipher as "ahwoooyehhhh, gneh, ahwouf."

He comes moments later, and then I do down his throat. Tweek, being the lazy person he is, then tries to take a nap in my lap. "Tweek, Tweek, don't go to sleep yet," I croon.

He mumbles and moans, "Why?"

I have him roll over and he eyes my hands approach his neck. They widen when they don't connect, and then spread even more when he hears the shuffling and clinks. "Is that what I think it is?" he hisses.

I wave what he thinks it is in his face before throwing it over my shoulder.

His glare keeps me from smiling. "You… youyouyou fucking _collared me?_" he yells with increasing volume.

My face is straight. "No."

"While I was _asleep_? And it's been on _all fucking day_?" He pauses, waiting for a response. I decide there's nothing I can say that will protect my testes from attempted murder. "_Are you out of your fucking mind_! Did you… do you… did you even think? What the fuck! You can't… you don't fucking do that to people for no good fucking reason! Did you think it'd be funny? Funny like a clown?"

His refusal to not drop pop culture references even when he's pissed and yelling amusing me. Him seriously being pissed and yelling does not.

"It's not like it means anything," I mutter before my brain can reinforce the Say Nothing policy we had previously agreed upon.

_"Yes it most motherfucking certainly does, dickweed!"_

… well, I suppose it could mean something to people like him. Not that I'll say that out loud.

Tweek and his psychic abilities catch me, anyway. His glare intensifies. I focus onto his twitching nose instead of his eyes.

"Oh, but of course, since I'm a kinky bastard, I _must_ be into that shit, right? With that logic, since I'm gay, I should start fucking every guy I see and pick up a lisp and some leather ass chaps, _right_?"

"Tweek-" he huffs and jumps off the bed to pull on pants.

"And AIDS."

I stand up and go downstairs.

… …

When I go upstairs later that night to make sure Tweek didn't leave any brain matter on the floor from when it was melting out his ears earlier, the room looks like something… _terribly _strange happened.

Tweek had cleaned. The dirty clothes were folded, stacked, and organized against the wall closest to the stairs, while the clean clothes are placed similarly against the opposite wall (because fuck the dresser.) The floor was clear, and everything on top of the dresser and end tables are set in rows, all pointing in a obviously calculated random direction. He'd finally gotten his shirt down from the ceiling fan. Something in the bathroom seemed to _gleam_ when I walked past it.

Cleaning is one of his nervous habits.

Corners folded and tucked, blankets straight and centered. Tweek, himself, is laying on top of on the crisply manicured bed. He didn't bother to interrupt any of this by climbing under, and is instead laying on top of the covers, plank straight. His eyes were locked unto the ceiling, but everywhere else was hardly restful. His legs were twitching, crossing and uncrossing while his ankles swiveled. His hands were locked tensely together on his stomach, but every few seconds one would break off to comb through his hair, or pick at his shirt, or tug at something. That's on top of all his normal twitches. Tics, as he sometimes calls them.

When I sit down on the bed next to him he glances at me. He didn't look so pissed anymore.

"'M sorry about flipping out earlier," he says finally. "I'm… I'm just nervous, I guess. Worried."

I grunt. "… What're you worried about? Being oblivious?" It's possible pissing him off again wouldn't be a good idea.

"I think… _all this_," he says, and a hand he apparently has control over waves over himself. "Is getting worse. Like… my nose is going now, if you haven't noticed."

"I have."

"That's half my face now," he says miserably.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, I think it's cute," I add, hoping it'd make him less… gloomy.

He snorts so hard I fear he may have torn a hole through the universe. "Of course you do... It's why I'm so skinny, you know. My _non-exercise activity thermogenesis_- or NEAT, to the simpleton, Craig- is, like, massive. I burn a ridiculous amount of calories with all this twitching nonsense. Seriously, my mom took me to nutritionist once but, _damn it_, that has nothing to do with what I'm trying to say! What else is connected to my face?"

"Your-"

"Jaw. My jaw. The thing that chews."

"… Yes? And?"

"What if I lose control of that? I mean, shit, you'd kill me if I started pouting uncontrollably all day-"

"I wo-"

"_I'd_ kill myself if I started sticking my tongue out-"

"Tweek-"

"Cuz I've been in a few homes 'n' hospitals, man, and that shit is _ugly_ and I am too goddamn young-"

"Tweek-"

"_And I wouldn't be able to fucking blow you anymore if I started grinding!_" he yells.

And silence, except for Tweek's occasional grunts.

"There… are… worse… things…" I trail off.

"No! No. It's horrible. Everything is just so… so… and I like blowing you!" he wails, and it would've been hilarious if he didn't immediately start crying his eyes out. "I don't wanna stop."

Oh Jesus. Oh fuck. Oh fuck Jesus. Crying, emotional person I cannot walk away from. _Shit._

It ends up with Tweek draining his snot out on my shirt for an hour. His spasms don't calm down all night. Neither of us sleep much.

… …

I try to get Tweek to stay home the next day, but he blows me off (literally, earlier- proving his ability, I suppose). "I'm fine, we're young- there is no better time to pull all nighters. Besides, I'm already stretching my personal days."

As he applies my arm belt, he says very formally, "And, um, I'm sorry for my emotional outburst last night."

"Yeah, whatever, Spock."

He squeals joyfully. "And do not forget that you're picking me up at _Ronny's_."

Ronny being Tweek's dealer friend. I'm still not sure if I approve of Ronny's existence. His face doesn't look trustworthy, with all those cheekbones and shit… but Tweek likes him well enough and it makes us some spare change with Tweek's pills. And he gets up free cable.

… Still don't trust him. "Are you sure you wanna-"

"Stop being a jealous bitch, Craig."

"I'm not jealous. I'm just saying. Drug dealer house. You said so yourself that weed gives you panic attacks… pussy."

"Well, it's a good thing I'm not lighting up, hmmm? Now stop with the questions." He then falls asleep on my arm.

I spend my afternoon borderline sexually harassing (harmlessly, I tell you) Pimple Ass Face, ignoring customers, and drawing very pornographic imagines on the wall of the bathroom that Pimple Ass Face will later have to clean. I exit the building the second my shift is over, informing Pimple Ass Face it's still his turn to close up and clean the damn bathroom, the shenanigans youngsters get into, my word…

It's still sunny out when I leave work, which Tweek is convinced is a part of some sort of conspiracy to get us to get comfortable in all this vitamin D and warmth just so we _die_ when the darkness comes back.

After forgetting that I have to pick Tweek up, I go to pick Tweek up. When he gets into the car, he's quite possibly the most sober person to ever reek so foully of weed ever. "Let me guess- you forgot."

"Nope. You've hitting the pipe too hard, Tweekers." And then I really look at him. And bark. "Holy shit, dude!" His hair was wet, probably fresh out the shower (which I'm sure will bother me later). A shower to wash the hair dye out.

The dude had trimmed the sides of his head until the hair stopped sticking out so obviously and dyed it black, and the natural gravity-defying fibers that make up his natural hair are sticking straight up to form a faux-hawk. I laugh again. "Shit, dude, look at you!"

Tweek nearly blushes, and adverts his eyes. "I have no fucking idea how it happened. One second I was being informed that my prom queen got knocked up, the next I'm sitting on the kitchen floor with _this_ happening… I think we were reading something… And I got a new bar in my ear." He turns his head and proves that he does, indeed, have a new bar in his ear. He slaps me when I poke it.

I move my hand from Tweek's ear up to his hair. I bury my fingers into the hair still available and drag his head over. I kiss right beneath his ear before sighing, "Yeah, it's fucking cool."

He head-butts me, but lightly enough that I know he doesn't mean anything.

"But I gotta wonder," I continue as I pull out from the driveway. "Why exactly are you doing all this…" I wave at him. "Ya know, piercings and shit."

He shrugs. "I dunno. I like it. Maybe there's some divine force that wants me to because it thinks it's hot and has no control over its desire to have me doing it. Who the hell knows." Pause. "I was thinking about getting an eyebrow stud, too."

I snort and laugh. The picture of Tweek, plus one stud, suddenly pops into my mind. _Adorable._

"Why, I ju- AHAHAHAHA." Tweek starts laughing hysterically as we pull up to a stop sign. For reasons unknown (but probably the schizoness,) those things amuse the shit out of him. "Haaa… what was I talking about?"

"Ah, nothin', don't worry about it. Now get out, I need to get gas."

Tweek gets out. He has an illogical fear of gas stations. It may be _Zoolander_'s fault, though. Not that I can blame him, I have a deep hatred for the places, too, but for different reasons.

So. Much. Money.

… …

I notice a strange smell the second I walk into the apartment. It's an almost… sweet smell, but not really. Definitely warm. Could it be…?

I run into to kitchen, and the first words out of my mouth are, "Cookies? Are you making cookies?"

Tweek's bent in front of the oven (dat ass), and when he stands back up he kicks the door closed. He turns to look at me, and there's a spoon that I'm sure had a massive hunk of cookie dough on it not ago in his mouth. "Yes," he says through it. "I figured one in every hundred batches of the dough or so is enough to prevent salmonella."

I scoop out a blob of cookie dough onto my finger and suck it off. Tweek elbows me, and I run into the corner of the wall. "OW, fucker!"

"Oh, psh, puss-"

"Cut your nuts off, bitch," I mutter, rubbing my strangely sore back. It fades not long after.

Tweek giggles before asking, "You okay?"

"My back hurt," I state.

"Old man," Tweek teases before following me out of the room.

"Yeah, watch out, or I'll make you start calling me Daddy."

We pause.

Consider what exactly I just said.

Tweek rightfully punches me. "Ew. You dick. Lemme see your back," he says before jumping me and seeing my back for himself. He gasps and then-

Giggling.

"Holy shit," he gasps before starting to really laugh.

"What? What's going on?"

"Go look for yourself," he sighs.

I do, with Tweek hot on my tail. I stop on top of the stairs and hike up my shirt, turning around so that I can get see my back in the mirror hanging on the wall.

There, twin bruises that look strangely similar to the heels of a certain hyena who's currently choking on air behind me. "Huh," I grunt. "You know, I could be seriously injured right now. And you're laughing."

"Aw, I'm sorry, Craiggers, want me to kiss them and make 'em better?" He's already on his knees and crawling towards me.

"I have something else you can kiss." I drop my shirt in favor of grabbing hold of his head as it draws near. His fingers are already picking at the front of my pants.

"You're such a horn dog," he mutters three seconds before my cock hits the back of his throat.

… …

I walk into the bathroom with a bottle of water and some cracka' ass crackers in either hand and sit on the edge of the tub near Tweek, who's curled up around the toilet

We sit there for a minute, Tweek recovering and me watching. He's been feeling sick for a few days. "I believe I know why you're sick," I announce.

He grunts.

"You're pregnant."

His head turns slowly towards me. He's apparently too tired to work up a proper glare, but not enough to not throw the bottle lid straight at my forehead. "Asshole," he mutters as his head drops back to his arms. "You're gonna make me throw up again."

"Someone's acting hormonal," I state while trying to comb out some of the knots in Tweek's hair, which is a twenty-four/seven job, even if he is sick. Especially if he's sick.

"Bitch, seriously, as soon as I can move. You're dead," he responds. He lifts his head long enough to drop it into my lap, allowing for easier access.

"You should be damn happy that's impossible, Mr. Anti-Condom-"

"Oh, like you hate my-"

"SHADDUP. As I was trying to say- what would you if I really did get knocked up, hm?"

"I'd be forced to kill you with a shovel, because you either are an alien or you fucked an alien, Tweek… if that is your real name."

"Tch. You'd let me live. You'd just end up killing the things with the shovel while they lay in their little alien kiddie beds."

"Screw beds, they'd get cardboard boxes like the alien scum deserve. And at least I wouldn't try to raise them."

We both shiver in terror.

I offer him the crackers, but he shakes his head no. I eye the ribs that're starting to rear their ugly heads again. His eyes roll under their lids.

"I promise to eat a whole goddamn ham at work," he informs me, apparently using his psychic abilities again as I maneuver myself out from under him and help him up.

"A ham?"

"Yeah, Easter's this weekend, remember? Lots of ham."

… …

On day five of Tweek hurling his guts up every morning, I suggest we go to the hospital. He refuses viciously enough to prove he will not and cannot be dragged in.

A few days later, he's fine, if not a bit tired.

… …

"My God, we're poor," Tweek moans as he collapses against my side.

Let me just say, the worst thing about living outside of South Park- _the goddamn bills. Especially with Tweek._

"Well, it wouldn't be that bad if someone didn't spend so much goddamn money of _things._"

"Only four dollars things!"

"_Four hundred four dollar things._"

Jesus Christ, that dude has absolutely no sense when it comes to spending money. But, of course-

"Well, if you didn't _let_ me get those things, it wouldn't be a problem."

On the other hand, he's way better at managing money than I am, as long as it's an abstract thing that he cannot spend for himself.

So now he's not trusted with anything more than a twenty on him. If he behaves that week.

"Why don't we just, like, stop paying for the phone? You know, that thing that we never use," Tweek said, his hand scratching through the short hairs on the side of his head.

… Sounds reasonable.

… …

There's a thump. Tweek's limp on the floor, and eight minutes we're at the hospital because fuck it, something's wrong.

Tweek blinks himself awake in a chair in the waiting room. He blinks dully and when he recognizes the monotonous room his head jerks off my shoulder. "Craig, this really isn't necessary," he says groggily.

"Well, if you'd been conscious when I left we wouldn't be here," I respond.

He sighs and slouches back in the chair, grabbing some gossip magazine. "You might want to nut up and invest in one of these, it's gonna be a long wait," he drawls.

I ignore him in favor of counting the holes in the ceiling tiles. I'm only on hole five hundred, seventy two when the nurse calls Tweek into a room. Tweek doesn't bother to try to stop me from following, but I get a weird look from the nurse. I glare at her. _Try me._

Of course, we had to wait once we got into the room, too. Tweek just lays on the bed, looking all too relaxed for my liking. Of course, Tweek is no stranger to hospitals and their hostile ways.

Eventually a nurse who looks stretched wide like taffy with uninterested eyes walks in. "What's the problem?"

"He fai-"

"_Passed out_," Tweek interrupts.

"Passed out a few times."

Nurse Taffy eyes him. "Right," she states as she turns towards the computer.

Tweek smiles as he turns to look at me. He waves me closer and whispers in my ear, "She thinks I'm anorexic. Now here comes the fun part- once she finds my medical records and my history of _crippling_ mental disorders, she's gonna automatically think you're my caretaker. Lord forbid she find out you're fucking me if-slash-when that settles into her mind, because that, my dear, is obviously against my will and abusive. And just so you know, you're not allowed to bitch about any trouble that causes because it's your fault for bringing me here." He grins sadistically at me as I scowl at him.

Damn it, I forgot how much I hate human contact.

"So, you are Tweek Phyllis-" snicker, "Tweak, correct?"

"Yes," he hisses. He hates his middle name more than he hates his two other names combined.

"Diagnosed with undifferentiated-type schizophrenia, prescriptions for-" and I zone out.

"Yup."

Then Nurse Taffy turns to look at me. "How's he been doing lately? Taking his meds, going to his appointments?"

Tweek turns to give me a cheeky smile. Psychic bastard.

"Ah, yeah. Of course. Good," I lie.

Nurse Taffy adopts a softer tone for Tweek, who just smiles sweetly back. Personally, I kind of want to slap her. Tweek's probably used to it, though. "Alright, Tweek, I'm just going to-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know what you're doing, get on with it," Tweek interrupts. Nurse Taffy smiles sympathetically at Tweek. His sticky sweet smile doesn't move from his face, but his eyes have a malicious glint in them.

Nurse Taffy goes through the typical preliminary tests, all of which the nurse records with a quiet, "Hm…" That can't be a good sign.

"Stop worrying, Craig, I always get 'interesting' results with that thing," Tweek says before curling up the chair and taking a nap after the nurse leaves the room. _Of course_ he can nap at a time like this.

Another nurse comes in awhile later, a short aging redhead, to do the eye thing again while Nurse Taffy stood at the doorway. She asks a few questions, and my limbs starts to tingle and ache when Tweek tells the nurse he's been feeling nauseous for a few weeks, and yes, he's dizzy, and yes, he has been being particularly clumsy, and _yes_…

They leave, and then… we wait.

After forty-five minutes, Tweek convinces me to go home and get him the book he's reading. I speed there and back, but it still takes too long.

But I did manage to finally catch that cat that has been dancing with Death (Trap) two times too many.

When I hunt down Tweek's room again, he has a large bottle of some pink shit in his hand that he's drinking from. When he sees me he waves with his empty hand. "They want to run more tests. I have to drink _all_ of this," he waves the bottle at me," which is going to make me feel sick, and then they're going to inject some more shit into me just for shits and giggles. And the MRI. _Which is common fucking procedure_ for me, so don't start freaking out."

"I'm not freaking out," I say as I whip the book at him and flop down in the chair.

"Sure, Craig." I flip him off.

He picks up his book and ignores me.

A little while later an actual _doctor_ accompanied by Nurse Taffy comes in. "Hello, Mr. Tweak," he says, his voice fairly unattractive. "Blah blah blah blah blah blah…"

There is nothing in this world that can make me listen to doctor talk. Absolutely nothing.

"… So we would like to check you in for the night," Doc finishes.

"Ah, god damn it," Tweek moans as Taffy puts in an IV. "See what you've done, Craig?" I flip him off again, and then Doc's and Taffy's backs as they leave the room. "We have to call my parents too, by the way."

"What? Why?" I do not whine.

"Remember those important papers that we were going to go back and get but never did?"

"… Yeah."

"Well, those are why. And they're still paying for my health insurance, so I guess they deserve to know why they're interest rates will be going up soon or whatever."

"… I'm not fucking talking to them."

"You don't have to fucking talk to them, all you need to do is not strangle them. And hand me that phone."

I slouch in a chair glaring out the doorway and flipping off whoever happens to glance in.

"Hey, Mom… Mom… _Mom, I'm in the hospital_… Um, Craig… What? No, Mom- MOM, he _drove_ me, he didn't-… Woah, wha-… Ah, Jesus, Mom, that's not of your damn- darn, Mother, darn- business… No!" His face is caught somewhere between horror and annoyance. "… Hey, they're trying to give me a new prescription… Valium… yeah, see you then." He throws the phone down and throws his head against the chair. He head rolls over in my direction, eyes closed. "She hates Valium. Pills that melt parts of my brain, no problem. Something that a rapper has talked about, it's morally unacceptable."

… …

Tweek's parents show up as Tweek's putting in his earrings back in after the MRI.

It was a very awkward period of Tweek's parents and me glaring holes through each other. Tweek just sits there silently between us, not that I was talking anyway. Just. Kept. Glaring.

A few hours later we're moved to Tweek's official room. I stay close, lest I be cut off. When we arrive I lay in the bed next to Tweek, arm around his shoulders. His parents remain an angry, disapproving shadow hissing from the corner.

Tweek turns on the TV and watches some CSI show. SVU. She-Tweak says it's inappropriate and he should change the channel. She goes ignored.

Nurses walk in and out of the room. In the evening there are papers to sign. The shadows stalk out of the room.

"You know," Tweek starts, breaking the silence that has been the last few hours. "They aren't going to leave before you do."

I hide in the bathroom. After Tweek explains my absence, me flipping them off through the door the whole time, his parents leave.

I crawl back into the bed.

… …

I don't fall asleep until the sun raises, and even then I fade to and from consciousness. At some point I think a doctor came in, but again, that medical talk.

Tweek looks paler when I finally come to. "You alright?" I murmur, still barely awake.

His head jerks towards me, lips pierced and eyes wide. His head nods jerkily. "Hey, have I told you about Jonah?" he asks quickly, and then he's off, and I get distracted. When Tweek's parents come in, he asks me to go get him some Pizza Slut, so I go, for I am weak when still tired.

Tweek's parents are gone when I return, but Tweek himself is still looking progressively more panicked.

"What the fuck is up with you?" I finally ask.

He glances at me. Picks off a piece of pepperoni. Chews it. Swallows. Speaks.

"I'm having brain surgery today."

… …

Tweek doesn't look at me the rest of the day. He throws up the pizza right before his parents show up again. It's a quiet day.

I feel like I can't fucking breathe.

… …

It feels too soon when Tweek's taken away. I stay in my chair. Tweek _still_ doesn't look at me. My skin feels like it's blistering whenever I look at him.

The older Tweaks and I are moved down to the waiting room for reasons unknown. Maybe it's just theatrical.

I can't get comfortable in the chair. Only me, Tweek, and the faceless surgeon who could end up fucking _killing_ Tweek are the only people in this world, and the last two are all I can bother to think about. Everyone else is a vague theory that has yet to be proven, right along with breathing. I can't focus on anything and time seems to be fucking itself into a unmoving paradox, and you know you're fucked when the only thing you can do is count seconds and you jump the gun five times before the clock ticks.

It was a long fucking eight hours.

… …

Eventually some nurse stormed out in a Grey's Anatomy worth performance (what, everyone has seen that show, shut up.)

Tweek's mom sobs.

I exhale.

… …

I wait until after Tweek's parents leave to go see him. No alliance had formed between us.

I get caught trying to sneak past the nursing station. So close…

"Visiting hours are over, sir!" one yells.

"I… need to see that one," I tell her (or is it him?), pointing at where Tweek's room is located.

"Visiting hours aren't any longer in there. And he's family only." _Never_ should have left them alone.

I try to think of some excuse, but all that comes out is, "But… I'm his BFF."

I'm allowed in.

When I was younger, I hated "BF," because I was never sure when, exactly, it stood for best friend or boyfriend or both. The usage in this case made me strangely giddy.

I practically fall into the chair next to Tweek's bed. The chair is cold and uncomfortable, but that hardly matters. Tweek had an almost comical bandage wrapped around his head, which probably has an almost comical bald patch underneath it, which has a definitely non-comical mark in it.

He really doesn't look all that much different from last time we were here, except there's more needles and he's more asleep and this time, Tweek's going to be fine. Really.

… …

I'm half asleep when the door to Tweek's room slides open. Assuming it's just another just a nurse, I ignore the noise and keep laying on Tweek's nearly unbearably bony yet definitely Tweeky leg. Then I remember how Tweek had told me there's a hot dude nurse who works nights, and I am to look out for him and make sure he hadn't grown the damn beard he said he was going to.

But when I lift my head, instead of a hot, possibly stubbly, nurse there's this asshole Tweek's father.

It occurs to me this is the first time I've seen him without the trophy wrench. He looks like he's about to hurl.

"What do you want?" I ask, debating whether or not I should bother raising my head of not. While Richard (Jesus, how many Dicks are there in this town?) stands there stuttering, I decide to relocate my head, but only so my hand can cover the spot.

"I, er, ah…" I start to wonder if Tweek's stuttering actually genetics' fault. And then I start _caressing_ Tweek's leg. _I am totally sodomizing your son, dude, and you cannot stop me._

He chokes and clears his throat before opening his mouth. "I… brought something… for Tweek." I notice something's in his hand the second before he drops it on Tweek's bed. For an undisclosed amount of time I suspect a bomb.

But it doesn't explode. It remains a strange, mushy, fuzzy, lumpy, brown thing. "What the fuck is that?" I state before picking the thing up. It's incredibly soft, but it wasn't any easier to identify the strange substance from closer up. A giant spider? Something that if I pokes it right it'd turn into a gigantic tentacle monster?

"That is… Imperial Sugar."

"Emperor Sugar?" Sugar, the tentacle raping alien. It has a nice ring to it.

"_Imperial_ Sugar… It's a giraffe," he adds oh, so helpfully right before I find its head and am able to align all its limbs. It is, indeed, a giraffe. "I… never understood how he came up with that, but…" he continues.

_Sugar by Imperial Teen, _I add silently. But he isn't getting that info from me. I still hate him.

"He's had it a long time. Since we were in South Park, I believe." I'm not quite sure who he was talking to, but it certainly isn't me. "Before his mother took it away a few years ago, he'd take it with him damn near everywhere, especially the hospital. She thought he was too old for it and that it may be _the_ source of his delusions."

The giraffe looks vaguely familiar, but all I my brain gives me is, _Yup, that's Tweek's, alright._

Tweek's pet giraffe, Sugar, the only woman he'll ever loved.

Goddamn random information.

I tuck Sugar against Tweek's side and glance back up at Mr. Tweak. He's looking at me. "He looks healthy," he says before turning and leaving the room.

… …

**AN 2.0: **END.

… naaaaaaaah. XDDD Okay, so I got a major case of Sparkly Eyes yesterday. I was sitting in my creative writing class counting down the hours until lunch when my teacher put on motivational spoken poetry. _Good_ motivational spoken poetry, and I am weak. She immediately afterwards spoke of how one could get their books or whatever published. In small amounts. Fairly easily *cue the sparkles*

My brain started getting all excited and was like, "Oh my God, we could publish Burr and sell it to people and it'd be _awesome!"_ And then reality was all, like- no. But then I got dared, so now I'm putting it out there. Thoughts, anyone?

And review the chappie, please!

And read NightingaleLost's stuff, too, because she is awesome and was helpful as hell in the creation of this chapter!


	28. Chapter 28

AN: I AM NOT DEAD NOR AM I NO LONGER WORKING ON THIS. Pinkie swear. School kills my ass. My brain is melting into a lazy, panicked, idealess mass. And I've been in the kind of bad mood lately that makes it hard to write… Well, I could, but I'd all be bitchy whining… _worse than it normally is_ :P

I feel as though I have not put enough casual nods to pop culture in this chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

**Lumps**

* * *

The first word I say is hello, with little difficulty. The first word I think is Craig, with no difficulty.

* * *

Things are a bit trippy for awhile. It's like the worst fever hallucination I ever had plus the vague illogical, fucked up blur that was my whole freshman year of high school. That was a bad year- I don't remember most of it, but I have scars and hospital bills that prove that that year had existed. It's also the year before my parents went _extra_ insane when it came to me.

So after the gingerbread men aliens from _PSR J1719-1438 b_, a planet that is actually one gigantic diamond, left and the nurses stopped trying to kill me, Craig came in. He's completely decked out in drag with puffed up pink lips and overly arched, thin eyebrows. His ass hangs half out of his barely-there booty shorts, his (magically still existing despite us living off sugar and never exercising) toned chest visible through his neon pink fishnet top. Hm. I'd fuck that.

"Tweek, _mi corazon_," Craig exclaims loudly, stepping over the head of the bed with magically long legs. I briefly wonder how it's possible to walk in those eight inch red heels he's wearing. But he handles them extremely well, much like another eight inch thing he lugs around with him all the time. Hur hur.

"Don't step on the purple bunnies," I mumble back.

He just laughs and falls down next to me on the bed, which seems to have doubled in surface area. "_Tu eres mi razon por vivir, no, mi vida, periodo. Tu eres mi carino, mi amor, mi tesoro, un angel del cielo, la luz de mi alma…_ "

"Goddamn Spanish," I gargle in response. His false hair from his wig seems to jump into my mouth, and I spit it out. "I don't speak no goddamn Spanish! I'M TIRED!"

"Tweek," he sighs against my face before kissing my cheek softly. "Te amo. "

"I like your hat, too," I reply earnestly before passing out, or at the very least letting the fuzzy yellowness that is the universe take over my sight.

* * *

My head's still fuzzy and sore when I'm released. The concept that there's a gap in my brain now, a hole in which there was once mass, is a little frightening. Weird. I worry about it collapsing in. Even though the tumor or cancer or mass, whatever the fuck it was, I wasn't paying all that much attention; Craig's apathy towards other's words is apparently contagious. I've been getting distracted easily distracted as of late, due to the tumor/cancer/mass, probably Craig's ass and general being, too, and now because of the yellow. Focus. I understand that the tumor/cancer/mass was fairly miniscule in size, but I like to imagine that is was the size of a golf ball, and now there's a golf ball sized gap in my head.

The shaved patch on my head looks ridiculous. I wonder if there was a less scarring or obvious point of entry and extraction that they could have used. When I deem it unlikely that I'll kneel over and die from the missing golf ball I'll have to visit Ronny and see what he can do to make it look halfway decent.

But first I'd visit Craig and find out his excuses for not showing up the whole time I was locked up. I'm sure they're perfectly decent and well practiced excuses, or maybe he won't bother to think of any and just tell me he figured I wasn't dying and I'd come back when I'm better. Either way I'll end up forgiving him and we'll go back to our daily habits, just without pills or Them or my tendency of seeing _Final Destination _deaths reappear right in front of us.

Then I get distracted by the rain beating against my window, which suddenly sounds so much more random and hollow than I'm used to it being. Before I'd thought that rain was a way for the world to communicate with me and the rain were its words. If I paid attention it'd tell me all I needed to know, but I never could pay good enough attention so I couldn't catch anything, so their voice became another I tried to block out: my parents', Them, teachers, peers, footsteps, shadows, songs (I backmasked like a motherfucker a few years ago until my mom decided they were another cause instead of an effect and threw away all my shit for it), books (I used to blackout most of the words in books leaving behind only the important ones- they turned out rather poetic but were burned upon the discovery by my mother), nature… Everything speaks to me and I've been trained to ignore it. All of it. One part for my safety, one part for my sanity, one part for my appearance of normality.

I'm happy Craig didn't get blocked out.

* * *

The nurses like me a lot more this time around but I'm so gone, how could I _not_ be so smiley and friendly?

I'll surely regret this when I come down.

As soon as I stop calling myself Shirley. Heh.

After another round of scans, blood tests, other tests, and I'm as sober as I'm going to get, the doctors deem it safe for me to be discharged. It's around this time I realize that They haven't made their presence known in an unnaturally long time and the last thing I've seen was Craig in drag.

This realization was brought upon by my psych exam. Now, I've been having these things for as long as I can remember. Every time I get myself hurt and end up in the hospital (which is every time) my mind is reexamined to make sure it's not its fault. Every time my I get a tiny bit more eccentric, dramatic, anxious- make sure there's not more pills we can give him to make it stop.

The response was usually fairly similar after the diagnosis of schizoness (one of Craig's words) stuck- "Well, ma'am, it appears your son has the grand slam of being fucking insane. He's psychotic. He does psychotic things. But because it's in my job description and you're a harpy, here's some more pills which conflict with some others he's prescribed but he isn't taking them anyway so just watch out for that."

But I'm paraphrasing, of course.

Turns out Mom should've been bitching at a neurosurgeon instead of a psychiatrist, eh?

Oh. Woah. Dude. I survived brain surgery. Trippy, bro.

_Focus._

The resident psychiatrist is a frail, pale woman with mousy brown hair named Dr. Mavrinac. She looks and talks like the kind of psychiatrist who seems to honestly believe her patient's identity is Schizophrenia Case #83. To a certain extent, this is a correct statement. Despite this, Mavrinac's one of my favorite doctors. Her job is not to be a therapist. Her job is to see the chemical misfires in brains and to find other chemicals to balance said misfires. To sign prescription pads, in short. My peers, from what I gathered when I was forced to stay in homes for awhile, hate her type. They have valid reasons. I appreciate the fact that she doesn't try bring everything I do into my psychological abnormalities realm. There's schizophrenic me, which _is_ her business, and there's personal me, which is not. I like to pretend they're separate, sometimes. She does, too.

Usually Mom would just call my therapist or takes me straight to the clinic, but when I get really fucked up she takes me to the hospital, and therefore Dr. Mavrinac. She doesn't see me, Tweek Phyllis Tweak who can play the piano like a kid out in the rain, when I'm trying to claw my arms off or whatever. She sees Schizophrenia Case #83. She takes care of that and leaves me the fuck alone.

I hate it when breaks become defining factors.

It's only through years of exposure that any form of a relationship formed between us. It started as me being the equivalent to House's Coma Guy for her, but after a few years there were a few conversations so now I'm Schizophrenia Case #83, and Tweek.

Her stone cold expression just barely warms as she walks through the door. She nods at me in greeting before turning sharply towards my mother, who had looked up from her _Cosmopolitan_ when Mavrinac had walked it. Anyone who was not familiar with Mavrinac wouldn't have thought anything of her slight head incline, but I knew the look. She was quite possibly the first person I met who has some major distain for my mother. She doesn't believe my mother provides a proper environment or attitude for me. She's quiet about it, using words like _criticism_ and _anxiety_ from _daily outside stressors _with _very pointed looks._

"Mrs. Tweak, I'm afraid you must leave the room," she states with a certain glint in her eyes. This makes her all too happy. My mother nods solemnly at her, like they're sharing a secret message. That message states that Dr. Mavrinac will tell her the results of this exam afterwards, and we'll keep this transaction a secret from the boy because we don't want to upset him.

Mom leaves the room.

This is not the first time Mavrinac has visited. The first time was to check for brain damage, I think. Now that I don't think the staff is trying to kill me because of the meds and I've had time for personal reflection, she's trying to figure out my current psychological state.

I fucking hate full exams. Six fucking hundred stupid fucking multiple choice questions.

Dr. Mavrinac supervises, and by supervises I mean she sits in the chair next to my bed and watches television. And then she bitches at me when I get distracted.

I finish fast, but Mavrinac doesn't leave immediately afterwards.

"Your mother hunted me down earlier this week. Apparently she has concerns about your current living environment. I take it you're no longer housed with them."

"Ah, no. I've been living with a… friend. He's cool." I kinda wanna brag about him, but I'm not sure if it'd annoy Mavrinac. I'd prefer her liking me.

"Oh really? Tell me more." I sense no sarcasm, but she speaks in a monotone that'd challenge Craig's. It's hard to tell sometimes.

I'm going to anyway.

"Well, I met him years ago but he moved here about a year ago. I moved in with him in October." I try to think of ways to describe him, but nothing comes to mind. I can't really explain why he's so special to me. He's just… Craig, and I love him for it. So I go for what I know is fairly solid ground between Mavrinac and me. "My mom thinks he's antisocial. She gave me a long chat about socialized sociopaths the other day… is that even a real medical term?"

She shakes her head no.

"Didn't think so. Yeah. So that happened. A lot of people do think he's a sociopath, maybe he does, too, he doesn't talk about it, but I don't think so. I think… I don't know, I think maybe he's just schizoid. Maybe blunt effect. Maybe he was just so miserable for so long he just kinda froze over. He's kind of an epic jackass, so I wouldn't put it past him." I keep trying to find words, and they keep not showing up. I groan and drop my head back. Mavrinac gives me a sharp look. Forgot about the whole Hole in Head thing. Oops.

"Hm… how does he react to your episodes?"

"Well," I respond, because I don't think "with blowjobs" would have been an acceptable answer. "He's just… awesome."

"Hm…" Just so you know, this is a shrink noise. I think it was a necessary class in school for them in school. They must master the proper tone and pitch of the Hmmm before they're allowed to spelunk into one's brain.

We talk for awhile, mainly about Craig because I keep turning the conversation back to him. I want her to understand how fucking epic he is. Eventually her beeper beeps, and she leaves.

There's nothing on TV so I turn it off. The only sound is the nurses bustling around outside the door, the occasional mini-siren that signifies that someone just died, and my heartbeat of the ECG. Try as I might, I cannot control my own heartbeat according to the thing, so I allow it to fade out.

I'm bored. There's nothing to see or hear here.

And _that_ hits me harder than an elephant's fist. It makes me cringe and shake, like some vital part of me has been torn away from. Like my senses have been torn away. I try to see if anything seems unusual, and that startles me because suddenly I have this weird concept of unusual and I know nothing I see is. It's all perfectly safe, too. I try to find them, but there's nothing to hear. There's no static, no foggy screams or paranoid advice or _anything_. It's just me and I suddenly seem really simple.

My brain is suddenly missing a step that was once vital, and nothing has changed. Not really. Everything has changed. Nothing is changing. Or morphing.

Craig still isn't here. I really wish he was.

My epiphany is cut short by Dr. Mavrinac's reappearance, this with her laptop in tow. "I can't hear anything!" I practically yell at her. In a startling display of surprise, she halts and her face twitches a little.

"What do you mean you can't hear anything?" she asks slowly, clearly. Her mouth moves in a slightly exaggerated way.

"Um… I'm not deaf," I mutter, clarifying. I still feel like I'm crackling inside, like some Mexican jumping beans had snuck into my stomach and my lungs and everywhere else. Which would be bad, because Mexican jumping beans are the result of some bugs crawling their way into said beans and then breaking out. So maybe that analogy is more accurate than I had originally planned. "But, like… them? And everything else? I can't find them. Or… shit, anything. Like… my brain. It's all… weird. It's weird. Clear, but…" Unnatural, not what I'm used to. After years of insane static this strange what-I-assume-to-be sanity is fucking unreal.

Dr. Mavrinac tries to get more information out of me, but there's really nothing left to say. Shock may have been a factor, too.

Eventually she leaves. I prove myself stable enough to not need a sedative. I pull Sugar up to my chest, which I may have had a death grip on the entire extent of my hospital stay that I forgot to mention, oops.

But now that I'm an out Imperial Sugar owner, oh my fucking god, I am so unbelievably happy about her magical reappearance. No fucking idea how it got here. I like to think it was just Magical Craig being Magical again.

Yes. Again.

Craig got me her in the first place. His parents had taken us into the city for his birthday. The last birthday before I moved away. Either that or it was my birthday. It was awhile ago, okay? I think it wasn't too long after Butters' pimping business. I was freaking out because Butters' had been strung up because he hadn't kissed any girls and I hadn't kissed any girls so was he going to do that to _me-_

Craig had yanked the giraffe out a sales bin, shoved it straight into my mouth, and said, "Here, now you've kissed a chick. A giraffe chick, keep that part silent, but a chick nonetheless. Happy?" I was, and then we booked it out of the store before anyone noticed our theft of Sugar.

That was Craig then. My crush on him was immeasurable. It may be directly related to my intense love to my bitch, Sugar. It was a few months before I moved away, and less than a year before my first major break.

I feel kind of drained, and trying to listen to the silence in my head is tiring. Nothing keeps me awake, so I go to sleep.

When I wake, Mavrinac is back in my room reading my charts. I won't pretend to understand her motives. She glances over at me. "My shift is nearly over," she states, slightly less serious than I've ever seen her before. "I'm going to forget my laptop in this room. If whoever happens to find said laptop looks at any patient records, make sure to tell them not to forget they have a poor mental history and it would be very easy for me to make their future very, very hospitalized and very, very without freedom. And assure him that I _will_ find out."

Hm. Thinly veiled threats in specialized monotone. I briefly wonder how her and Craig would get along.

So she leaves. I troll the internet. I discover that there's a cock ring made out of jade for sale for Rich People. Craig is never using one of those things on me again unless it's _that_ one.

My parents come and go a few times. Whatever. Craig doesn't. Asshole.

* * *

Oh, and just to make it perfectly clear, here was my thought process for ninety percent of my stay at the hospital: Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig's penis Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig's ears Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig's smile Craig Craig Craig Craig Asshole Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig it's his turn to do the dishes Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig Craig's penis Craig .

And repeat. But I figured I'd edit most of that out. Could be a bit boring and repetitive, non?

But since we're on the topic of Craig, I may be a little more than slightly irked he hasn't shown up. I keep thinking I see him outside the window, but he disappears too fast to confirm. He doesn't come into the room. If he was there.

Before I went into surgery, I was wondering if he was angry about it. A certain part of me knew he was, another part knew he wasn't angry at _me_, but fuck. He looked angry. The cause of his anger was coming from me. Was he bothered by the trouble I was causing? The hassle? Being here? My parents?

* * *

So anyway. The present. I think I'm going through withdraw. Pills, maybe. Dick, likely. Craig's dick.

Mmm, Craig.

Told you it was constant.

The clothes Mom brings me to change into are too tight and pink to possibly actually belong to me. She probably bought them for me. I probably ignored them.

I get Jonah to give me some scrubs to wear instead.

The car ride is awkward. I don't feel like talking to them. I don't talk to them. It annoys Mom. Dad's silent, staring forward. I cannot figure that man out. Some days he hates me for being too weak and other days he relishes in it. Today I have no idea which direction he's falling. He looks really tired.

After she continues to fail at getting me to converse with her, my mother falls into an angry silence. Like that's the _worst_ punishment she could dole out.

We are silent. This silence thing still feels ridiculous. I don't think my paranoia has gone away yet. I'm not sure it will. I'm still reacting to every shadow or strange shape outside the window as is if they're real, but the rest of my brain isn't responding with my muscles. You'd think that wouldn't be possible.

We stop for gas halfway back. I still hate the place, so I cross the street and wait there. I feel stupid. My brain doesn't support this action. There is no logic behind this action. I know that.

Fucking stupid crazy fuck.

I start feeling really fucking bad. Stupid and crazy. Fucking fifteen minutes in the real world supposedly sane and I'm overwhelmed. I got used to dealing with the terror, annoyances , the hassles that come with having extra shit take over your world. You never realize exactly how fucked up that world is until it's gone, and for some fucked up reason I want it back because at least I know how to deal with it.

Again. Fifteen fucking minutes. I know I'm being dramatic. I hate it. I kinda wish someone would slap me.

We pile into the car again. My mom asks me if I'm okay. I say fine. She doesn't believe me. I keep saying nothing until she turns back.

Silence.

I ask, "Have you seen Craig? At the hospital, I mean."

Wrong question. My mom tightens up. She doesn't respond right away. I can't see her face, and I can't imagine what it looks like.

"Why? Did you?" she responds coyly. I suddenly decide that her face probably doesn't look too pleasant right now.

"… No," I mutter. I think this is going to be a speech about how our relationship is obviously not as stable as I think it is or whatever. I really don't wanna hear that right now.

"Oh, thank God!" she exclaims. Fucking high pitched sugar that grinds my ears into dust. "I was really worried for a second, Tweek, dear, now that you're so healthy…"

"What are you talking about?" I mutter, not really want to ask. Not really wanting her to answer. For some reason I'm suddenly feeling really carsick.

"Well, that nice doctor who did your surgery, Dr. Cockburn, he said that your tumor was located in an area that could have caused your delirium! So now that it's been removed, it'd only make sense your hallucinations would be gone, too!" Too fucking cheery, she is.

"What. Are. You. _Talking about_?" I choke out. My insides are revolting.

"Oh, dearie, don't act like you don't know. You're a smart boy," she coos. Smart boy. There's a phrase my mother only uses when she wants to see her logic.

_"What the fuck are you talking about?" _I yell.

"Tweek, such language is-"

"MOM!"

She sighs, and she says her next sentence like it's a casual every day thing. Like it barely matters. "Well, obviously, dear, Craig wasn't _real._" She _laughs._

My leg jerks out, kicking the back of her seat as hard as I humanly can. "That is not something to fuck around with," I hiss, but my eyes are starting to burn. My skin's prickling.

"Tweek!" Her vocal chords are out to kill me.

"Don't fucking 'Tweek!' me!" I kick the back of her seat again. "Don't fucking _say_ that shit! Don't you _dare_. That is fucking _bullshit_."

"When did your language get so horrid?" she demands. Always bitching about the stupidest shit. She moves the rearview mirror so that she can properly glare at me. I flip her off.

"Well, roughly when I moved in with my fucking _boyfriend_, Craig. The fucking living human Craig."

"You do _not_ know what you're talking about! _'Craig'_ was a hallucination that your pathetic mind made up to satisfy your _disgusting_ urges!" she screeches. _Knew_ she wouldn't like the gay thing. Hm…

"Ah, yeah, well I suppose some of the shit we got up to _is_ pretty disgusting, I guess. I know some people think rimming is pretty iffy."

Shocked silence. He he.

" Craig's got a _wicked_ tongue. Don't knock it 'til you try it… oh, but wait. You have a pussy. Ew. And you're my mother. And you're old. Fuck, you should just get that shit sewn shut, ya know? Pointless, really. That is unless it's removable, in which case I suppose it could be used to fend off unruly youngn's."

I do believe I have shocked them into silence. As uncomfortable as saying this shit is, disgusting them is a kind of sickening joy. Of course, there's some form of disgust building in me right now. The blisters that have formed in me pop and spew out. "But if it's the expenses of our lifestyle you're worried about, don't worry. Craig's fucked me so much that we barely need lube anymore, so that's a nice chunk of extra change in our pocket! He's blowing his boss, too, so he gets a bonus, like, _every_ month. Which he _can_ do because he's _real_."

"Actually, blowing Dick happens a lot. Most of the time I join them , unless I'm with Ronny in which case I'm totally fucked out. But recently we've all just been getting together after hours at Rit's and just _fuck each other's brains out._ And then snort coke off of the sidewalk. But don't worry, Mom, whenever we get caught by the fuzz we just blow them and we're free again! Although, I think I could survive jail pretty well, if I do say so myself. Playing someone's bitch isn't all that hard. Plus, the dicks on outlaws are things of legends. As are Canadian cocks. Uncut _monsters_-"

"You little cocksucking whore!" Mother Dearest screeches before practically launching herself over the back of her seat to get at me. Her seatbelt locks, preventing her from getting close enough to do any real damage but still letting her to get into slapping distance.

She gets in two good hits before my hands clamp down on her wrists. Mom screams again. I imagine it doesn't feel excellent, but I react to violence with violence. What's in your pants matters not to me when you threaten my facial beauty. Also, she's a fucking bitch.

I have her eyes. I wonder if that's what Craig'd have to see when I get angry.

Mother Dearest and I keep screaming at each other as the car swerves onto the side of the road. This does not really register with either of us, even after a door slams in the _very_ near distance. My door is yanked open and then there's an arm around my waist, another prying our arms apart.

The road we were driving down is in the middle of a grassy meadows. Not the romantic kind, the kind that scratches your ankles when you try to walk through them. They are also known feasting grounds of deer. Deer are stupid and suicidal. They have a tendency of running straight into cars, apparently thinking if they move fast enough they'll just, like, faze through the car. There's also a certain hatred you get for them after you see their vast herds crossing the road with a few of the family's idiot cousins just stand there staring at the car going, "... there's a thing. Right there. I don't know what it is. I'm just going to _stare_ at it."

And you're just like- "_Move_ you goddamn idiot mammal."

And it's still just like- "."

So you're like- "I SWEAR TO GOD, YOU STUPID ANIMAL, IF YOU DO NOT _MOVE_ I WILL _KILL_ YOU WITH MY CAR AND YOU WILL BE **DEAD**, OR MAYBE I'LL JUST SELL YOU TO CREEPY UNCLE TED AND YOUR ASS WILL NEVER BE THE SA-"

My father tries to put me down when I'm still mid-antideer internal monologue, so I stumble. His hands grasp my shoulders, holding me steady. I shrug them off. My parents touching me has felt weird and uncomfortable for over a decade.

My throat feels constricted and my skin itches from fire ants. The itch craves to be ran off, to be bled out of split knuckles. Alas, I hate running and punching things as a form of physical exertion. I usually fuck this mood out. Which I can do now. Because of Craig.

Because he's real.

Even though he's been as absent as Them and I don't have any proof and if he's real I think he'd care enough to show up. And he's kind of freakishly perfect for me. And it's bizarrely illogical how we met up again. And sometimes it feels like we fit together too well and he cares about me too much to actually be real, to be who he is and care about _me. _And his dick is much too glorious to be real. I cannot emphasize this enough. His dick. Is made. Of magic. And, well, his general physicality. Hottest shit of the face of the Earth.

Mainly his dick.

But... he's real. He has to be. I need him to be.

A chill runs down my spine despite the warm June air. I turn my head to look at the car. Minivan, actually. I've never understood this. It's just me and them. Were there supposed to be more me's? Ew. Maybe it just fits the image well.

My mom's head is in her hands. Her body's shaking. I snort and shake my head.

"Bitch," I mutter, letting my gaze drop down to my Converses. Rows of HA HA HA stared back up at me from underneath green laces. They're Joker shoes. Craig had bought them for me last time we'd made the trip into Portland. I like to think of them as a Christmas present because he hadn't gotten me anything then. All I gave him was a my tongue down his throat and Chinese food. Of course, the shoes have a larger monetary value than my tongue skillz does.

Well. Probably. There is only one way to find out for sure. I must become a prostitute and see how outrageous I can get with my rates to be...

It's really weird hearing no protests for that.

My heart's practically beating out of my chest still and my nail are digging into my palms. My mind is still trying to process information. Playing a little game of _Fact or Crap._ Stop it, brain. The answer needs to be crap because it's Craig and we_ like_ Craig, remember? My Craig.

Even so, my heart won't stop racing and I feel a little nauseous. Blame it on leftover meds or something.

I look over at my father. He looks older than I remember him being. More lines etched into his face and less determination settled in his eyes. He looks like he's five seconds away from saying, "I'm too old for this shit," and instead of going on and still doing that shit, he just lays down.

Due to this stance and the fact he still isn't yelling at me despite the analyzing face he has going on right now that usually leads to critique, I come to the conclusion he doesn't resent me right now. He is possibly nearing normal parental affection. Funny how this always happens when I'm at my sanest.

My throats locking up again, so it takes a few deep breaths for me to be able to force out a, "Dad?"

We make eye contact. I breath in again. "Sh-she was lying, right? He's real and she's just, just being Mom, right?"

He doesn't respond. His face shifts slightly. He looks very unsure of how to respond.

I continue. I can practically feel my stuttering increase. "B-because she h-has control issues a-a-a-an-and she doesn't like him. And that's she's trying to make me believe th-that. H-he's real, right?"

He breaks eye contact, which is generally fine because he's too tall for me to enjoy having to look at his face **(oddwordingoddwordinghelpme)**, but right now I need him to _look at me and tell me I'm right. _

He's looking back over at the car, but I fist his shirt and pull him back towards me. "Dad, _please._"

I keep blubbering, but he won't answer me. He just keeps shaking his head side to side with this fucking _look_ in his eyes. Terror is sparking through my nerves and my cardiovascular system has fallen out of my chest, leaving behind a painfully hollow hole. "H-h-he's _g-gotta_ be, j-jus' please, _t-t-tell_ m-me."

"I'm sorry, son, I truly am," is the only response I get.

* * *

Eventually Dad gets me back into the car. My face is a mess. He gives me some napkins and then we're driving.

I throw the wet, snotty balls at my mother whenever she tries to talk to me.

I refuse to get out of the van when we arrive to their house. This is hardly the first time I've staged miniature Occupy the Van in opposition to my parent's tyranny. While usually they only last until I'm convinced I've completely tired them out and therefore being able to do whatever I want for awhile (which mostly consisted of eating too many donuts and trying to translate rap into sheet music while not wearing pants.) The longest one ever lasted a week. They'd convinced me that the outside world was toxic, so I'd refused to enter it. For a few days I'd let my parents feed me, but then I wouldn't even accept the food. Which is how _that_ ended.

This all sounds really stupid now. Illogical. Why would I do that, believe that? What sort of fucked up is that? And yet, I can remember being completely terrified the whole time. All this shit I'd done because I thought it was necessary... it's just _stupid_ and _crazy_ and I'm suddenly so fucking ashamed of it from this new perspective.

I wonder if I'd have felt the same way about Craig if-

* * *

Eventually I go inside of the house. I grab enough food to sustain me for a few hours before flipping off my mother who'd been speaking at me the whole time. I go up to what was once my room. There's nothing in it that holds any value for me.

* * *

I have a new meds to take. Anticonvulsants. I have to take them for a year. For the first few days, my mother holds them at ransom. I have to exit my room and listen to her speech of the day before receiving said medication. It appears I am still slightly paranoid and fear possible seizures. I use these days as preparation. I slowly and steadily steal food and transport it to my room. A week later, I steal back my meds from where she was hiding them.

* * *

A week later I have to go in to get my staples taken out, which I am rather enthusiastic about. Currently it looks like a fucking hookworm burrowed into my goddamn skull. I've taken to wearing an old beanie to cover it up.

That week had been... unbearable. All my things are at the apartment, so there was literally nothing to do but lay in bed. At one point I'd gone to Ronny's and I'd left with a Skrillex haircut. Pretty much finishing the job the hospital started. To think it's fashionable nowadays. He'd dyed most of the blonde black, too, but put in a blue streak lining the bald stripe. I was too tired to object. It looks kind of silly; my hair's too short and poofy to really pull it off. Craig'd hate it.

The week had been spent thinking of Craig. The tense with which I think of him in keeps changing. He is, he would have. I can't make up my mind. I can't breathe. I'd would be sleeping in a puddle if I could get my brain to get past theta waves.

At least my father seems to also be wallowing in my pain. His empathy gland seems to have been kicked into gear. I haven't seen him conspiring with Mom lately.

* * *

My breath is uneven and labored as I walked down the street. I am very much unfit and the walk between the house and the apartment was longer than I had originally thought.

I'm not sure what I expect to accomplish by going there. Maybe I'm expecting him to be slouching on the couch while staring at the TV blankly. When I went through the front door his gaze would shift towards me and that look would fall into _my_ look. He'd stand up and waltz straight up into my grill and drawl out, "Where the fuck have you been?" before pressing me into the wall and-

That expectation keeps turning into a fantasy.

All of my theories involve Craig being there when I open the door. Most of them end the same way (see above.) My brain cannot truly think of this topic. My brain's being a bitch. I mean, shit, being sane isn't any less confusing. If anything, insanity gave me some direction. Bullshit direction, but direction nonetheless. Except I wasn't even crazy, just being hormonal or whatever the fuck causes hallucinations. Trippy blood flow. Whatever. You wouldn't think I'd be able to survive with it for so long, though. Really. Or a hospital would've caught it before now. It's all rather ridiculous and God's getting silly with its minion's plot lines.

_Focus. _Alright. No attention span is a personality thing, not a crazy thing. Maybe. Who the fuck knows.

My throat tightens again, which it's been doing more often than a nun's face at an orgy, when the complex comes into view. What if Craig's not there? What them? Give up? What if he's there and the reason you haven't seen him is because he does not _want_ your anything anymore? What if for some reason he turned out to be some sort of needstobeneeded/guywithissuesphile and that's why he isn't? How do I plan to revert myself to my previous state in that situation?

Death Trap's not in the parking lot. In the event that this was all a hallucination, Death Trap could not be real because I cannot drive and I'm fairly sure I would have noticed that sound ordinance defiant metal box of DOOM before if it belonged to one of my neighbors.

My rides in it felt very real. Not getting wet was an upside to it. But I also remember taking a trip to Pluto in a bathtub when I was twelve. I remember the ride very vividly. Motherfuckers were after my beloved ice cream bar... oh, how I loved to lick its creamy center... its oh, so nutty chocolate covering... That was a nice ice cream bar.

I've also hallucinated weather before. This occurrence royally pissed me off. My mother would make me dress for the dead of winter when it was obviously summer! _And then she'd make me go to school! _Bitch.

People are staring at me weird. I blame Sugar. I love her to bits, don't get me wrong, but I hate the looks I get when I'm holding her hand in public.

My hand shake as I try to get my keys into the lock, and the apartment is silent when I enter. Which is odd. Craig and I usually had music playing, even when we were gone... or was that me? Yeah, that was me cuz I remember Craig bitching at me for an extended amount of time for running up the electricity bill.

My eyes are watering, as per tradition. My breath is wavering but I try to take a deep, clear breath. It smells like home. There's nothing that particularly screams, "SMELL DE CRAIG!"

Nothing does. The organization of things, the food in the fridge (nothing new since when last time I looked in it), the movies... all perfectly natural. Very me. Very not foreign.

Is this the result of me having lived here or _only_ me living here?

I carefully study every aspect of the room that makes up the bottom floor of the apartment, trying to find something that signifies there was other life living with me. My brain, I feel, has been doing significantly less work lately. My instincts feel dead while my habit of studying the ever loving fuck out of myself has stayed the same. Everything I do gets analyzed, only now I feel that I'm doing this to myself and making conclusions myself. I kind of hate it. Both doing it and what I'm seeing. Fucking crazy fuck, I am. Why would anybody find this shit anything but unpleasant? Why would someone live with me, like living with me, like _me?_

All of Craig's movies look old and worn through, if that's possible. Could've easily bought them at a flea market or somewhere. Could've borrowed them from the house or Walmart or wherever.

Craig has eaten a surprising little if what's in the fridge and cupboards are to be trusted.

I go upstairs, and the bed is unmade and cold. Some of my favorite shirts are in the covers. There are many clothes thrown about. They're as old as the movies. Had I turned into a thrift store shopper? I don't remember ever going or where they could be. I also don't remember the last half of eighth grade and couldn't tell you where a single one of my classrooms are. I try to find some pants or one of the shirts I let Craig keep for himself. They could not be found.

I look for something that I wouldn't, couldn't have, like a senior yearbook from South Park or something. My search results in nothing. A certain part of me recalls that Craig didn't bring anything one would call sentimental or personal when he moved. Of course he didn't.

I lay on Craig's side of the bed, which is possibly more indented than my side because **1) **Craig's fat or **2) **the bed's shitty and anyone laying on it for an extended time would bust it up.

Craig was fond of lists. I'm not exactly opposed to them. I find them to be very useful, but I'm not very good at them. They're probably a useful tool, especially for someone who should perhaps be a little bit more habitual, such as a paranoid freak who had to make many meds at a precise time.

So I stayed lying on Craig's side of the bed for hours, until it's dark out and then some, trying to find him there and perhaps waiting for Craig to come home.

He doesn't.

* * *

I'm at Ronny's again.

Ronny's a sleazy guy, no denying it. His hair's greasy and he could be a voice actor for Skeevy Guy #1 in an animation. I say voice actor because irl Ronny looks so _angelic_ it makes everyone swoon. I blame the dimples. And his leather jacket. An angelic bad boy. _Le sigh._

I'll go ahead and admit to once having submitted to his charms and having had a massive boner for him once upon a time. But that was years ago... still, I believed it to be beneficial to not tell Craig. Maybe that's why Craig didn't like Ronny. He already knew.

I shake my head, trying not to think about it.

Of course, that boner pretty much gave up after two years, and it was the year after_ that_ when I started talking to Ronny. Ronny, being the heartbreaker he is, is basically asexual and spends most of the time with his hetero life partner, Stephan (people call him Taffy for some reason,) when he could be boning half the town. I've offered on many occasions to get a full body switch with him so that'd people would stop bothering him and I could stick it in some bitches.

Taffy's pretty cool. Really quiet. He wears sweaters in various neutral colors and a trench coat. He probably sleeps in them. He's average in height and appearance. He has a bunch of potholes in his face from an old acne problem. I imagine he's one of those dudes who you gain fondness for after being around for an extended amount of time. Ronny and him met while they were toddlers, so... Yeah, I've only met him a handful of times.

I wonder if we'd all be better friends if we'd met earlier or if I was more friendly.

Enough with the history lesson. Right now I'm getting a tattoo.

"Wait, Tweek," you say. "Isn't that a bit impulsive? Out of character? Won't it hurt? _Why the fuck are you fucking getting a goddamn tattoo?_"

Here's the main reason: Ronny is the _devil_ and is way too convincing for his own good.

But I think it's part my fault because my idiot is showing and I'm feeling impulsive. This used to lead to crazy monkey sex. Now it leads me into some jackass' chair while his trench coat wearing friend sets up his legit tattoo gun.

We all settled on a picture on Google within five minutes. It's a strange face in a coffee mug. I could try to intellectualize the selection, but I think Ronny summed it up best.

"Wooaahh, this is totally you, bro! Cuz you're all crazy n shit and like coffee! LETS DO THIS SHIT, ALREADY!"

So here we are. Taffy's gun is against my arm, I'm preparing for a Lifetime Idiotic Doing and then-

The space time continuum shatters, and the world bends. Monsters tear through the floorboards and charge the front doors. The tattoo is sadly abandoned a few marks in, which has nothing to do with my intolerance for pain. Indeed, my manliness was proved moments later as we forced all of our enemies into submission. Even though Ronny and Taffy fought valiantly, it was my dick that made the biggest progress. The glory of my balls blinded them all (including Ronny and Taffy) and the sheer mass of it all will humble them all for the rest of their unlives. While the evil little beasties were basking in the glory that is my gonads, I swiftly decapitated them all.

Suddenly, Kurt Cobain himself bursts through the ceiling in the rays of God's golden light. I advert my eyes, for I am not worthy. "Tweek, my beautiful follower," he says, his voice echoing in my ears in the most holy of ways. "I must commend you and your dick for fighting so bravely. Alas, that was just one wave of many if we do not stop this. There is but one way for the end to come; my glory must be brought back."

I am about to question who such a thing could be done when Nirvana itself deposited its seed into the tattoo ink. I can't help but take a glance at His Holiness, and it causes my eyes to bleed which is to blame for the sudden wetness on my face.

Suddenly I understand. "My Lord, " I gasp. "I am not worthy."

"But you must," he booms. "You must carry my mark. It is the only way to save the world. But be warned, O Brave & Hung One, this is quite a trial to conquer. No one would blame you for seeking aid." And with that, he disappeared just as fast as he'd appeared.

And _that_ is how I ended up getting a much smaller Nirvana smiley tattoo that hurt like a _bitch,_ face wet and with what may be morphine (I honestly have no idea, Ronny picked it out) in my veins. There is no other possibility.

"You are such a pussy," Ronny sighs, smirk still firmly planted on his face.

"Shut up," I slur as the yellow takes over. "I just saved your ass."

"Whatever you say, bro. You better not overdose or anythin' in my goddamn house."

I roll my eyes and my head lolls to the side. This is definitely not going to kill me. "You don't know that," Craig sighs, running his hand through what's left of my hair. I twitch at his sudden appearance, and Taffy's hand on my arm tightens in response. Craig has a definite fuzzy look to him, but who am I to question his appearance?

Somehow Craig's sitting on me in this tiny chair, even though his fat ass would surely kill me. "Hey," I say, leaning against his hand. My head hits the chair.

"Hey," Ronny says. I ignore him in favor of staring into Craig's eyes. They're still as grey as I remember them being, which is very. Very comforting.

"Hey, where've you been?" I ask.

"Right here, buddy," Ronny interjects. Craig's hand traces across my face. It feels warm, just like the rest of my body. Warm, not hot.

"Why didn't you visit?" I try again.

"Visit what? Where?" Ronny interrupts again.

"Shut up, Ronny, I'm not talking to you," I snap as hard as I can, which isn't very hard. Back at Craig. "Is something wrong? Where were you? Don't you... don't you... Have you been busy?"

Craig doesn't answer. Instead he keeps threading this synthetic warmth into me. Not like how I usually feel when he's around. He blows in my face, and it's warm. It doesn't smell as bad as it would normally around this time of day, especially now. He's horrible at dental hygiene. Doesn't floss, doesn't brush (often enough, in my opinion), doesn't chew gum...

I dare ask, "Are you even here?"

Honestly, I don't remember much after this point.

* * *

My mom's pretending I don't exist now that I've refused to go see a shrink. Dad's working extra hours and doesn't come back home a few nights. I'm laying in bed reminding myself why I was alone before Craig showed up, why I'm alone now, and why even the notion of Craig was silly of me to come up with.

Silly boy, love is for good people.

All you deserve are pills.

I think I slept more this month than I have my whole life.

There were holes drilled into my skull for the surgery. They are called burr holes. I take one finger and place it at the base my ear, where the scar starts. I trace my scar, and when I hit the end of that I go for the burr holes. _Bump bump bump_.

* * *

I find that music sounds different now. The piano is elusive. Words can't really explain, so for now emo poetry is also eluding.

* * *

Dad makes me go to work. I let him. Maybe I can work myself into apathy like he has. With the help of Ronny's handy, dandy pills and booze I find it much easier that I thought it'd be.

My arms are barely attached as I refill the jelly jar. The Boss Lady looked at me weird when I entered the building, messed up off my ass with a haircut the just accentuates the giant question mark scar that's been carved into my skull. Luckily, she's much too nice to fire me.

The bell over the door rattles, and it startles me into stillness. Perhaps these stars- straw- stirs- stairs aren't the best thing to be on in my state. Except they aren't stairs. What the fuck is it called?

I put a raspberry jelly time jar on the shelf. The shades don't match.

There's voices in the front part of the store. I recognize them both and they make me _joyful_.

It's strawberry jelly. Strawberry jelly goes with other strawberry jellies so it's not all alone. I relocate the jar.

I pick up another. It's a strange shade. Why are they all so _similar_. It's so hard to tell between raspberry from strawberry and grape from blueberry and pear from pineapple...

"Tweek," a very nice noise voice says. Its arms wrap around my middle and lift me off the stairs- _ladder_. That's what the fuck it's called.

I am very careful to put the jar in the correct spot before turning to face the voice. It has Craig's nice face. It's so handsome I want to melt and absorb into his skin and never, ever leave like mercury. Craig looks happy, too. Why would he be happy to see me? Craig does not do happy. People do not do happy to see me.

Craig's hands on me feel very present. Was he talking? Yes. Tune in. Now. "... And Jesus fucking Christ, what the motherfucking hell did you do to your hair?" Except he's not looking at my hair, he's still just looking at my face.

I look down and see that my feet still haven't hit the floor. I'm not that light. "Put me down," I say, wondering if he'll listen of it we'll go flying.

My feet make contact, and I swear to God I can feel the vibrations straight through my very _soul._ I look back up at Craig, who has not released me completely. If fact, he pulls me as close to him as he can. My head is tipped back at a semi-uncomfortable angle.

He's like the sun, all warm and sunny and natural.

I look at his face again. It's blurry.

His fingers poke at the burr holes from the surgery. I jerk my head away, but lose my motivation halfway through the motion and my head just falls.

There's a Cheshire Grin pointed at me. Then the cat's licking me, on my nose and forehead and lips and eyebrows and anywhere he can get to. It's nice.

I look over Craig's shoulder. Boss Lady's standing there. She glances over, looks away. Like there's nothing to see here. Just a boy standing, perhaps.

Funny how Craig never showed up when I was sober.

I've always been one to trust my instincts, mainly because they've demanded it. Right now, they are not trusting. They are not sure of this presence. Even now, when he is supposedly right in front of me, I can barely feel him. A part of me wants to cry because he is here. Another, stronger one wants to cry because _is he really? _

My whole body shivers. I'm a lot colder now. "Let go of me," I say. It's hard to get out.

Catty, Vanishing Craig freezes. He lets me retreat a few inches. Have not the will to move further. "Release." A few more inches.

"Tweek..."

Distance increases, metaphorically and physically. Craig's far away now. My fingers go to my head, poke at the holes responsible for all this. My mouth is moving and vocal chords are vibrating. I'm vomiting in all sorts of ways. My thoughts are flying, my doubts the forerunners.

The hands keep coming at me, for my face or hand or anywhere. So fucking innocent and gentle, which I guess my mind thinks I need right now. I keep dodging the hands because they aren't real and if they feel real they'd be a lie and I can't deal with that right now.

I really sad, too, because I can't have my Craig. These halfassed images are... nothing to my Craig. What I thought he was. What I was so sure he was. He doesn't feel so real anymore. He never really felt possible, but now it's just so... different.

Craig is gone. I do not see him.

I go back to putting the jellies into their little families. I do not wish to be here.

* * *

**AN 2.0:** _J1719-1438 b _is a real planet and I have a **tumblr** now for some reason- lazyincoherency .tumblr .com. I make no promises at making it worth looking at.


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